


contingency

by neroh



Series: in sin + error [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Anal Sex, Bottom Illya, Canon-Typical Violence, Double Agents, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, Hate Sex, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, Kingsman Cameo, M/M, Mentions of Terrorism, Mission Fic, Retelling, Top Napoleon, references to 9/11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: The mission is a simple one: retrieve a USB drive from a very bad man’s yacht off located in the Mediterranean Sea and confirm its destruction to HQ.Or another way Napoleon and Illya met.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Bre for everything and Mo for being a terrible influence.

The mission is a simple one: retrieve a USB drive from a very bad man’s yacht off located in the Mediterranean Sea and confirm its destruction to HQ.

A very bad man who happens to be a Russian government official with _very close_ ties to one particularly unsavory Russian president who may or may not has tampered with the United States elections. It’s all very complicated business Napoleon doesn’t trouble himself with beyond the fact that Waverly has assigned the retrieval to him and Gaby.

The assignment isn’t something for novice U.N.C.L.E agents. That’s probably why Napoleon is currently on the deck of the small cruiser Gaby is piloting through the unseasonably choppy waters off the coast of Marseilles. Which, by the way, is normally lovely this time of year and once this mission is over, Napoleon plans to indulge (and, perhaps, pick a few pockets) in the Mediterranean city’s splendor.

Beautiful people, lots of cultural, fine dining—everything a man with few scruples like Napoleon Solo enjoys. He’s looking forward to a mini vacation and spending time wandering through the city. In all honestly, while Marseilles is one of his favorite destinations, the only thing he can complain about—which he does and _quite_ loudly, much to Gaby’s annoyance—is this godforsaken boat.

Seafaring is not his cup of tea and he prefers solid, steady ground.

Gaby, on the other hand, is positively delighted by their assignment’s locale and shiny new toy. “It runs like a dream,” she exclaims, rushing to the deck with a grin plastered on her face.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Napoleon inquires as he doubles checks the approaching storm through a pair of binoculars. It’s nothing to be concerned about—just some winds and rain that will make visuals on himself a bit of a challenge for Gaby, but it’s nothing they can’t handle.

“The engine,” Gaby answers, her happy mood not spoiled by Napoleon’s lack of knowledge of mechanics. “It has to be one of the most beautifully put together things I’ve ever seen.”

Napoleon raises a brow. “I think I have competition,” he deadpans, earning a playful slap to his arm.

“ _Never_ ,” Gaby assures, plucking the binoculars out of his hand. “Nothing could compete with your ego. We’re close enough to start jamming their signals.”

They glance at each other and Napoleon nods. “Alright,” he grumbles. “I’ll change while you work your magic, Ms. Teller.”

By the time Napoleon is finished changing into his wetsuit and back on deck, he’s being greeted by a light rain. Gaby has dropped anchor on the boat and is readying his equipment for the assignment. “I feel like a condom,” he announces as he approaches his partner.

“And you look like one,” Gaby says, barring a charming smile. She motions him closer. “Come on; let’s get you ready.”

They go over the plan again while Napoleon’s head is put inside of a diving hood and his arsenal of weapons are attached to his waist and right thigh. The plan is simple: get the drive and blow up the ship. Waverly was explicitly clear that the CIA doesn’t care about collateral damage, but they are willing to make an exception.

“The wetsuit is bulletproof,” Gaby explains as she helps him fasten a knife and its holder to his calf. “It’s on loan from our friends at Kingsman, so do be careful about damaging it. Their quartermaster will be fairly sour if it’s not returned in one piece.”

Napoleon shrugs, remember the tall, bespectacled Scottish gentlemen with a fondness for jumpers and a certain twenty-something agent with pug trotting at his heels. Brilliant, resourceful lad, though, and quite handsome, if not a bit, unlike the typical Kingsman stock. “Ah yes, Merlin, isn’t it?” he sniffles, pulling at the cuff of the wetsuit.

“Yes, and you _will_ return it as you were given it,” Gaby sharply reprimands with an equally sharp look. “Now remember Napoleon, keep everything on, _including_ the hood. It will be the only thing protecting you from bullets to that pretty head of yours.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, madam.”

“I’m serious!” she continues, fastening the flaps of the hood to the collar of the wetsuit. “Believe it or not, Waverly and I would prefer it if you came back to us in one piece.”

Bobbing his head in agreement, Napoleon checks out of Gaby’s lecture. “I hate to interrupt you, darling, but can we get going?” He gestures to the increasingly darkening sky above. “Before the storm ruins everything, preferably.”

“Oh, like Shanghai?” Gaby counters.

Napoleon smiles. “Shanghai was lovely. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Auckland,” she says.

His smile falls just a bit. “Too many earthquakes.”

“What about Victoria Vinciguerra?”

He winces, remembering the willowy blonde with sympathies towards the Alt-Right. Wonderful legs and tits; shame she was blown up. “Point taken.”

“Best get a move on,” Gaby tells him. “I’ll be monitoring your signal the entire time. If anything goes wrong, just press this button.” She motions to the beacon on his utility belt.

Napoleon walks towards the edge of the boat where he swings his leg over the side, letting it dangle over the edge. “This is a piece of cake, Gaby dearest,” he says, smiling. “I’ll be back before you or the Russians know it!”

“A piece of cake like our mission in Tokyo?”

“As I told Waverly, I can’t be held accountable for Mr. Osato’s failure to heed warning labels,” Napoleon cheerfully argues.

Gaby’s laughter rings across the deck. “I won’t even get into what happened in Cairo.”

“Bitch, bitch, _bitch_ ,” Napoleon grumbles, offhandedly, as he swings his other leg over. “You’re no fun, do you know that, Gaby? A complete party pooper.”

Rather than wait for Gaby to mention other mission-related mishaps, Napoleon launches himself into the water. Unlike the Pacific or even the Atlantic oceans, the Mediterranean is warm and easy to cut through as he swims towards the yacht on the horizon.

 

* * *

 

Sergi—because of _course_ , his name is Sergi—Fedorovich Smirnov, while an utter bastard, has excellent taste in luxury boats.

The sixty-meter yacht, _Pereplut_ , is a Codecasa-built vessel, constructed entirely out of aluminum and lacquered snow white. Napoleon can only imagine how lavish the interiors are and begrudgingly thinks that it’s always the bad guys who have excess money for such things.

The prelude to the mission—swimming to the damn thing and boarding without being detected—goes well enough.

Napoleon finds a hiding place to recuperate and give his limbs time to stop trembling. “I made it,” he whispers into the radio built into his watch.

“I _can see_ you on the radar, you know,” Gaby snaps, annoyed. “That’s why we have surveillance equipment, Solo.”

Several minutes pass before part two—retrieval of the drive—begins.

Napoleon utilizes his military training and several moves taught to him by various lovers as he stalks through the yacht. Goon after goons goes down, leaving a trail of them all the way to Smirnov’s elegantly appointed study on the second level. “Storm’s not lightening up,” he comments, his voice nearly lost in the wind and rain.

“It’s been upgraded to a Category Two,” Gaby replies. Napoleon can hardly hear her over the sound of another guard trying to fight him. Over the grunts, muffled shouts, and finally the snapping of bones, she continues, “Definitely not safe enough for you to swim back.”

Napoleon snorts dismissively. “ _Please_ ,” he says. “I’ve had to make my escape in worse conditions than this.”

“Don’t even get me started about Munich,” she warns. “I’ll come to you.”

“Good. I’m about ten meters away,” Napoleon tells her as lightning flashes off his peripheral, followed by the rumble of thunder. “Well…that’s a bit of a problem,” he says to himself.

He doesn’t waste time heading to the study, taking the yacht’s steps two at a time under the storm’s concealment. Another lightning strike comes, illuminating the entire deck and sea just beyond. From his vantage point, Napoleon sees the churning waters turning grey, clearly ramping up to be one hell of a storm.

 _In like Flint,_ Napoleon thinks to himself as he slips into the darkened study. Between lightning strikes, he is able to admire the fine craftsmanship of the room. It’s a shame that the mahogany woodwork and tasteful, expensive art will be nothing but wreckage at the bottom of the sea.

It’s just a part of the job, and at least a bad man like Smirnov will be dead.

And they are predictable, it seems. Napoleon locates a safe hidden behind false books and gets to work with cracking it. It’s his expertise, along with art theft, forgeries, and seduction; he enjoys figuring out the combination locks as if he was doing the Sunday crossword. The feel of metal under his fingertips, the click of correct numbers.

To Napoleon, it’s _almost_ better than sex.

The safe door swings open, earning a grin from its breaker. Napoleon pokes his head inside to find the USB drive in plain view. “Amateur,” he whispers as he retrieves it.

“Do you have it?” Gaby says over the radio.

Pocketing the drive in a water-resistant container attached to his waist. “Of course.”

“Good. I’ll be at exit gamma,” she tells him.

Now all he has to do is blow up the yacht. Inside of his utility belt is a small but potent bomb. No bigger than one of Waverly’s fountain pens, the device has enough power to bring down a rather large building should the user desire it.

“Shame,” Napoleon mutters as he activates the bomb and sticks it inside the empty safe. Without shutting it, he makes his very quick exit.

He races through the yacht towards the direction of the bow, encountering the goons he’s already taken care of. As soon as Napoleon is on the next deck, rain splatters onto him and obscures his vision momentarily. Grunting at the assault, he carries on.

Napoleon is nearly to his escape route when he hears the crack of a gun being fired, followed by a bullet nearly hitting him in the head. He dives away, ripping his gun from his thigh and firing it at his assailant. The figure dodges it and disappears into the shadows as quickly as they came.

“What was that?” Gaby shouts, worried. “Solo?”

“I’m fine,” he growls. “Encountering a bit of trouble.”

Gaby curses in his ear, a steady stream of German as Napoleon carefully leaves his refuge and continues on his merry way. Or at least tries to.

He would be hopping over the railing of the yacht and landing in the water if it weren’t the human wall brandishing their gun blocking Napoleon’s way. The storm prevents any positive identification, though judging by the breadth of the other person’s shoulders and tapered waist, they are decidedly male.

“Pardon me,” Napoleon says, “but you’re in my way.”

The man tilts his head, gun still trained on Napoleon’s and doesn’t respond.

“Not very good at this whole subtlety thing, are you?” Napoleon comments.

“Give me the drive,” the man tells him in a thick Russian accent. Of course, he’s one of them. Probably Smirnov’s extra muscle in case if the others who Napoleon handled failed. Holding out a hand, he wiggles his fingers.

Napoleon lifts a brow. Just beyond the yacht, is the tiny cruiser with Gaby on board. A short enough distance for him to swim and far away enough to avoid the bomb’s blast. “See, chum, I would but my bosses asked me to retrieve this from who I suspect is _your_ boss.”

“You know nothing,” the stranger hisses. “ _Cowboy_ ,” he adds like a curse.

Sighing, Napoleon shakes his head. “Then I’d really hate to do this,” he says before shooting at the man. He misses, but it’s enough of a diversion to give him a few paces head start.

They pursue each other on the upper deck of the _Pereplut_ , winding and twisting like Napoleon and this stranger are involved in a car chase.

“Solo!” Gaby yells through the radio. “What the hell is going on?”

Napoleon grumbles. “I told you! I’ve encountered a bit of trouble.”

“Why don’t you take a shot at him?” she demands.

It’s a logical question and requires a logical answer, except the stranger has tackled Napoleon to the deck and punched him in the jaw. Blood pools into his mouth; he’s fairly certain he bit his cheek upon impact. Whoever this man is, he’s a stealthy motherfucker, and it’s a pity he’s on the wrong team.

They charge at each other like animals, fighting and injuring between thrown punches to bodies parts as both men move over the deck. Napoleon’s fist connects with the stranger’s kidneys, doing very little to stop him. He’s begrudgingly amazed at this creature’s stamina and would probably compliment him if he wasn’t trying to kill Napoleon.

And if Smirnov, who has appeared out of nowhere, wasn’t firing his gun at them both.

He doesn’t know what’s happening, he really doesn’t, but the man bum rushes Napoleon, sending both of them off the yacht and into the waters below. Over the roar of thunder, gunfire, and a very nasty storm, Napoleon hears the stranger yell as he hits the water.

The yell is not like any other, but one filled with excruciating pain. Both strangled and surprised. Napoleon’s heard that type of yell before when he was shot during an attack on his envoy. He doesn’t remember much from that day, except the sound he made before the world pitched and went dark.

It still haunts his dreams.

Swimming to the surface, Napoleon expects the stranger to be there and ready to take their altercation into the sea. Saying that he’s rather surprised to find himself the only one there is an understatement. Despite the constant downpour of rain, he wipes his eyes and begins scanning the area. Napoleon has no idea why he’s even bothering to find someone who just tried to kill him, nor does he have time to think about it. There’s a little voice in his head telling him to keep searching, to find the stranger, to save him.

In the choppy waters, he spots a body bobbing up and down, drifting helplessly.

He reacts instantaneously.

Napoleon hurls himself forward and swims to the stranger as quickly as he can. It’s utterly ridiculous of him and, not to mention, dangerous for him to stay near a soon-to-be exploding yacht.

Of all the irrational things Napoleon has ever done, this has to be at the top as he grabs the man by the scruff and pulls his head out of the water. There isn’t enough time for him to check for a pulse or disarm him, so Napoleon swims.

Salty water strings his eyes as well as the tissues in his nose and mouth, giving Napoleon the strong urge to gag. The man’s head lolls dipping dangerously close to the water, before dropping against Napoleon’s shoulder, heavy, motionless, and wet.

As Gaby pulls the cruiser up to meet them, Napoleon hears an explosion from behind. The concussion wave knocks him into the side of the boat, his shoulder taking the brunt of it. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that the _Pereplut_ and Smirnov have met their end.

Gaby appears on deck in utter disarray, with her hair plastered to her head and clothing soaked through.

It’s probably one of the most amazing sights Napoleon has ever seen.

Without a word, they work together to pull the unconscious man on board. Napoleon collapses to his hands and knees, sucking in precious oxygen while simultaneously coughing up seawater.

“You’re barking mad!” Gaby shouts at him.

“Believe it or not, Gaby dearest, you’re not the first to say such a thing,” he wheezes. Napoleon grabs the stranger by the shoulder and rolls him onto his back, revealing one of the most beautiful faces he’s ever seen.

As if he was Michelangelo's _David_ , Napoleon’s attacker has been expertly created with sculpted cheeks, a straight nose, and lips begging to be kissed. The very image of Adonis: blond hair, almond-shaped eyes with a scar under one of them that crawls towards his temple, and do not get him started on those _shoulders_.

Napoleon doesn’t take much time to admire the stranger as he realizes the blue tinge around his mouth is, well, bad as it can get. He presses down upon his chest, compressing and releasing the man’s lungs to aid him in expelling any water he’s inhaled. Several long moments pass before the stranger’s chest hitches and he begins coughing. Napoleon lifts him into his side, patting his back as water dribbles from his slack lips.

“Who is he?” Gaby demands.

The man heaves and coughs harder before going utterly still. “Don’t know,” Napoleon admits, meeting her worried stare. “He tried to kill me.”

Gaby’s eyes widen. “And you didn’t think to kill him back?”

“Somehow, it just didn’t seem like the right thing to do,” Napoleon tells her. He expects a sharp and colorful reprimand when he notices Gaby’s stare is fixated on him.

The coppery tang of blood hits his nostrils before Napoleon even notices it on his hands. He lets out a startled gasp, momentarily wondering if he’s been hit. “Shit!” he shouts upon seeing two dark, ominous stains on the other man’s clothing. “We need to get him inside for a better look,” Napoleon tells Gaby as he grabs the stranger’s upper body. “Get his legs will you?”

“Solo!” she shouts angrily, despite following her partner’s request.

The idea of carrying sizeable opponent when they’re unconscious, such as this particular gentleman’s dead weight, is easier than it actually is. The two of them get him into the control room and lie the stranger on a nearby table once Gaby has shoved all its contents onto the floor. With the overhead light swaying above them, the bullet holes in the injured man’s sweater become more apparent. Blood trickles from them, staining everything it comes into contact with and, _shit_ , this is _bad_.

“Get the first aid kit,” Napoleon orders as he cranes his head for a better view.

“How bad is it?” Gaby asks as she fetches it.

He counts two wounds, plus a bleeding cut behind the man’s ear. “Twice in the back,” Napoleon answers as he gently examines the head wound, thanking every deity he can think of that it wasn’t caused by a bullet. “And he’s bashed his head. Get a scissor or scalpel out; anything sharp!”

“From the fall?” the young woman questions as she opens the kit and hands Napoleon a scalpel still in its plastic wrap.

It’s torn off and dropped onto the floor, forgotten. “Call Waverly and the Marseilles division,” Napoleon says, taking the instrument to the man’s sweater and slicing through the woven material. “Let them know we have an incoming causality and seek immediate assistance.”

“ _This_ is _your_ responsibility,” Gaby tells him as she goes to the controls to get them moving.

Napoleon nods as he continues his work, cutting and peeling away the man’s clothes to expose his back. He finds an expanse of smooth, golden skin. The first of the stranger’s wounds appear, an angry, bleeding hole with burnt edges. “Found one,” Napoleon announces.

“The medical team wants to know where they’re located,” Gaby says. When he looks, she’s clutching the radio in her hand while the other drives the cruiser.

“Give me a minute,” Napoleon replies, turning back. He catches a glint of light off the bullet embedded inside. “This one is located in his latissimus dorsi while the second is a hair above the thoracolumbar fascia.”

Gaby repeats the location. “Do you see them?”

“Only the one.” Napoleon reaches for a tweezer and peels back some skin to get a better visual on the first bullet. He presses his ear against the man’s back, listening to his breathing as much as he’s able. It sounds clear, a good sign that the other bullet isn’t in his lungs.

Where it’s ended up…that’s a matter entirely for the medical team to solve.

Napoleon begins the task of removing the bullet, a difficult feat for someone with only field training. It’s even more so on a boat in the middle of a storm. He works slowly, easing the piece of metal millimeters at a time until it comes out with a sickening pop.

Hidden underneath blood and tissue, the bullet glimmers under the overhead light while Napoleon examines it. He sets it aside to prepare to disinfect the wound and bandage it; there are no tools for him to stitch the skin back together and it’s just as well. Napoleon has no desire to attempt it or to inflict more pain than necessary.

He picks up the iodine when he realizes the scalpel is pressed into his throat, held there by none other than the stranger. He drops the bottle, holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy now,” Napoleon whispers.

“Who are you?” the man barks, his voice hitched with pain and fear. The blade in his hand kisses Napoleon’s skin, only seconds from slicing it open. “What are you doing? Don’t move, you! I’ll cut his throat!”

Napoleon swallows. “Hello, we met recently,” he says calmly. “On your chum Smirnov’s yacht. Excellent fighting technique, by the way.”

“Smir-” the man gasps. The scalpel falls to the ground, clattering loudly as he spins Napoleon around. His eyes are wild, pupils blown and shining with pain. Blue like the sea, multitudes of shades ranging from ice to the depths of a sapphire. Shaking, he clutches onto Napoleon’s shoulders as he blinks deliberately in an attempt to focus his vision. “What? What?”

Whatever adrenaline he had is rapidly depleting itself; the man sags forward. “ _Chto sluchilos_?” he asks.

 _What’s happened_ , Napoleon recalls from his knowledge of Russian. “Easy, easy,” Napoleon assures as he helps steady the other man. “You were shot.”

“I was…” the man’s voice trails off. He takes a step back, stumbling into the table like he’s drunk. Uncoordinated and frantic, the man grabs onto the edge to regain his balance. Napoleon watches as his shoulders heave with each hitched breath, pushing more blood down the curves of the man’s back. Suddenly, his hand reaches like a claw, snatching the glass with a bullet at the bottom and plucks it out.

Both Napoleon and Gaby step forward, readying themselves for anything. “Perhaps you should lie down,” Gaby suggests, gently. “Why don’t we get you back on the table so Napoleon can bandage you?”

The man holds the compacted metal to the light, where he stares at it for several tense moments. It slips through his fingers, falling onto the floor with nothing more than a single thump. “ _Der’mo_ ,” he rasps before fainting into Napoleon’s waiting arms.

 

* * *

 

The Marseilles medical team meets them inside of the seaside entrance of their headquarters, a picturesque villa located right on the water.

The entire scene starts off more dramatic than necessary like it’s that type of movie and they’re all about to run down the corridor in slow motion. Thank Christ, it doesn’t come to that. The team transfers the man from the cruiser to an awaiting stretcher. An IV line is started while an oxygen mask is fitted over his nose and mouth.

Waverly is there, because of course, he is, waiting for his agents amidst all the chaos. He follows the retreating medical team and their patient before turning back to them, dour as usual. Napoleon reaches into his utility belt, pulling out the drive and pressing it into Waverly’s hand.

“Another job well done,” he says with a tight smile. “Due to tonight’s excitement, I believe it would be agreeable to postpone our debriefing until tomorrow morning.”

Napoleon exchanges a tired glance with Gaby, noticing the slump of her shoulders and how she’s still dripping water onto the floor. He never had a chance to change out of his wetsuit, which is very much wet and stained with the stranger’s blood. What he needs is a hot shower, a stiff drink, and a warm bed—all in that order. His entire body _hurts_ from combat and falling into the sea. The pain of bruises finally making themselves known now that Napoleon isn’t running on pure adrenaline.

“Yes, sir,” Gaby replies. “Thank you.”

Waverly nods his head as another smile thins his already thin lips. “Of course,” he tells her.

They go to their rooms in silence, save for Napoleon kissing Gaby on the cheek, bidding her a good night at her door. Waverly’s disappeared again as he usually does—probably to have a stiff drink himself or update the CIA on the mission’s success—so it’s just him. Napoleon wanders to his door and opens it, sighing with relief once he begins undressing.

The hot shower does him good, as well as his meal of New York steak and the most delicious potatoes he’s had the pleasure of eating in a while. He forgoes the drink and falls straight into bed, silently delighted to feel something soft under his body.

Except sleep doesn’t come and Napoleon ends up wandering through the villa. The storm has calmed down by then, only a light rain pattering against the windows, and should be gone by morning.

He finds himself in the medical ward by accident. It’s not one of his favorite places, having woken up in enough of them during his time with the military, the CIA, and now U.N.C.L.E. The smell of antiseptic and promise of finding the stranger beckons Napoleon down the corridors. None of the staff stops him, only offering him a perplexed glance before carrying on with their business.

In the only occupied room inside of the ward, Napoleon finds the man and Waverly for that matter. His boss is typing away on his tablet amidst the sounds of hospital equipment, looking wholly out of place in his pristine suit. As the door shuts behind Napoleon, Waverly glances up and offers him a smile.

“Oh,” Waverly says, setting down the device. “Good evening. I thought you’d be resting.”

Napoleon shrugs as he steps closer, his attention turning towards the man in the hospital bed with monitors attached to his body and a nasal cannula up his nose. Clad in a flimsy pale blue gown, the stranger’s face is turned away from anyone coming into the room. Only the curve of his cheekbone with his dark lashes brushing against it and a bandaged fastened to where he hit his head are visible.

For such a formidable opponent, this man appears softer as he sleeps, like most people do. Something about him tugs at Napoleon’s chest, that unknown pull that urged him to rescue this stranger.

“What did the doctors say?” Napoleon inquires, keeping his voice low as he searches the man’s face.

“The remaining bullet didn’t hit any vital organs; we’re mostly looking at blood loss and some bruised ribs. He’s a lucky man, thanks in part to you,” Waverly replies. “They suspect he’ll need a week or two before he’s back on his feet, but perhaps Agent Kuryakin will surprise us.”

Napoleon raises his stare, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “You know who he is?”

“I was going to wait until tomorrow’s debriefing, but it seems that our friends at MI6 owe you their thanks. Meet Illya Kuryakin,” the other man tells him, gesturing towards the aforementioned man. “A double agent, though his loyalties are with the English. His mother was an operative stationed in Moscow when she met his father. Deep cover, of course. The KGB found out when Kuryakin was eight; his parents were executed and he was placed in an orphanage.”

He tilts his head, trying to picture this man—Illya Kuryakin—as anything but a capable agent. “It seems he followed in dear old mom’s footsteps,” Napoleon comments.

“In more ways than one,” Waverly sighs. “The Russians have found out about his betrayal and are displeased, to say the least. He can’t return to them for obvious reasons, so SIS is loaning him out to us.”

“Loaning _him_ out?” Napoleon exclaims. He points to the unconscious man. “ _He_ tried to kill _me_!”

Waverly rolls his eyes and nods. “And yet you still saved his life.” He watches as Napoleon’s mouth opens and shuts in search of words for a rebuttal. “I think he will be a splendid addition to your and Gaby’s partnership.”

“But we’re _fine_ on our own!” he counters.

“Why be fine when you can be unstoppable, Mr. Solo?” Waverly asks. He rises to his feet, taking his things with him as he walks over to Napoleon. Waverly’s hand is warm on Napoleon’s t-shirt covered shoulder when he begins leading him out of the room. “Come; you need rest, as do I.”

With one last glance over his shoulder, Napoleon bids Illya a silent farewell and leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon’s reintroduction to Illya Kuryakin is an unmitigated disaster because of course, it is and why no one foresaw this will always be a mystery to him.

Before then he spends his time wandering through Marseilles; sometimes on his own, sometimes in Gaby’s company. They keep themselves busy while their new team member recovers. Napoleon hasn’t ventured back to Illya’s room, even after he was moved into a more comfortable one not too far from Napoleon’s own. Admittedly, he’s curious about this fellow, but it doesn’t mean he wants to suffer through awkward interactions while he’s still high on pain medication.

“He was polite enough,” Gaby tells him after constant badgering during brunch. She pops a pastry into her mouth and shrugs. “Tired easily, which isn’t surprising. A bit shy, if you ask me,” she adds once she’s dabbed powdered sugar from her lips.

This answer does not satisfy. “What else?” Napoleon implores, stirring his coffee.

“Is this an interrogation, Mr. Solo?” she asks, raising one of her perfectly arched brows. Gaby knows him all too well; he’s nervous and he knows it and, unfortunately, so does Gaby. “Why don’t you go see him and introduce yourself?”

Suddenly, Napoleon finds something rather interesting in his cup and hums an incoherent answer to the suggestion. He hears Gaby sigh—the one where she’s had enough of his childishness and is about to drop a truth bomb—and winces.

“What’s the problem?”

He hears Gaby folding her arms over her chest and decides he _hates_ when she does that. “There’s no problem,” Napoleon replies hurriedly as he’s taking a sip of coffee. He glances at her from over the rim of the cup to find Gaby glaring at him.

“Do I _really_ have to ask again?” she complains.

“No,” Napoleon tells her. “It’s just that…” He purses his lips together because he really doesn’t know what the problem is and he’s going to have to wing it. “He’s going to change the team dynamic.”

Gaby goes bug-eyed and then laughs—no, _cackles_ —at him. She keeps laughing until other patrons of the cafe are staring and there are tears glistening in her eyes.

“Are you done?” Napoleon asks dourly because, honestly, it’s a perfectly acceptable concern, especially since thinking of it on the fly. He ought to speak to Waverly about giving him more credit for his quick thinking.

Hiccupping, she nods. “Our team dynamic? You mean the one where you do something horrendously stupid and I bail you out?”

“Yes, _that_ one,” he fires back. “We have a good thing going, Gaby. Why fix what’s not broken, so the saying goes.”

Gaby rolls her eyes and brings her palm to her forehead. After several colorful moments of her cursing in German, she composes herself enough to drop a truth bomb. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps we need _someone_ with other specialties? Or maybe _someone_ who can keep their dick inside their trousers and doesn’t try to nick civilian goods for the fun of it?”

“Well, now that you say it like that…”

“ _Solo_ ,” Gaby groans and leans closer to him, “believe it or not, Waverly assigning Mr. Kuryakin to our team is not to infringe on your masculinity—”

“My masculinity is very much intact, thank you very much,” Napoleon huffs.

She pretends not to listen. “— _or_ say that you are bad at your job. A team of two capable agents is good and well, but _three_ of us would unstoppable.”

“You’ve been speaking to Waverly, haven’t you?” he grouses.

Gaby also pretends to ignore _that_ comment. “So put your penis and measuring tape away and stop being such a drama queen!”

“I am,” Napoleon bristles, suddenly feeling very attacked. “I am _not_ a drama queen! I’m actually _offended_ that you would say such a thing, Ms. Teller! Of all the years we’ve worked together and known each other—a _drama queen_ is what you refer to me as. How could you even think that? I am a perfectly composed individual whose temperament…”

He pauses to process what diatribe has just come from his trap and realizes Gaby is right. Instead of teasing him mercilessly, she just smiles sweetly and taps his chin. “And I’m the Queen of England, babe.”

Later on, once Gaby has all but bullied him into going, Napoleon finds himself outside of Illya’s room. He’s attempted to knock at least three times already and can’t bring himself to do it. It’s one thing to save a person’s life, receive their gratefulness, and leave for the next adventure, but a completely different situation entirely when said person will become a permanent fixture in Napoleon’s life.

If anything, Napoleon Solo is not a man who enjoys commitments. Sure, he has a mostly healthy interpersonal relationship with Gaby when she isn’t berating him and is perfectly capable of maintaining them (also see: Gaby). It’s just…

Something about Illya Kuryakin has him all in knots and if there’s another thing about Napoleon, he does not enjoy being uncomfortable.

“What is wrong with you?” Napoleon mutters to himself as he knocks once, twice.

The door opens and before Napoleon can introduce himself, a fist connects with his jaw so painfully that he swears he’s just been hit by a truck. His teeth loudly gnash together and there are honest to God stars in his vision as Napoleon crashes against the opposite wall.

Napoleon lies there stunned, asking himself a million questions such as _How did I end up on the floor? Why on Earth does my face feel like someone has slammed it into a brick wall? Did I just see Jupiter passing through when I blinked? Oh, my God—what the ever loving fuck_? Dazed and bewildered because clearly there’s been some sort of mistake, Napoleon glances up to find a wall of a man in front of him.

And he’s _glaring_.

“Oh, hello,” Napoleon warbles as he stands up on shaky legs. “We’ve met before—”

Another fist, or perhaps the same one, meets his jaw and spins Napoleon backward. Blood pools in his mouth where he’s bitten into his cheek. Napoleon reaches for his pocket-square and uses it to spit into before addressing Illya Kuryakin once more.

“Now see—” He dodges another punch. “ _Here_!” Napoleon blinks at him and then frowns. “That isn’t a very polite thing to do to the person who _saved_ your _life_.”

Illya growls— _actually_ growls—at him, white teeth bared and hands shaped into claws. “ _Ruined_ my life,” he corrects in a low, dangerous voice before charging at Napoleon’s middle like an animal.

They collide and end up against the wall, which connects with the back of Napoleon’s head. For a brief moment, he weighs the pros and cons of fighting a man recovering from gunshot wounds until Illya’s fist makes contact with his kidneys.

Napoleon decides right then and there that he isn’t going to be this man’s literal punching bag and begins fighting back.

It’s a melee of wild, uncontrolled punches and shouting as both men flail in the middle of the hallway. They crash against banquets and vases without care to the consequences, other than to see who can land more hits than the other. Honestly, they look like hooligans with the way they’re lashing out.

Then again, Napoleon is only fighting because Illya started it, so he’s really the _innocent_ party in all this.

As the commotion carries on, he absently notices the fury behind the other man’s actions. Like he’s been containing himself the entire time he’s been convalescing, only to lose his temper at the first opportunity. If it hadn’t been Napoleon, it might have been someone else.

“What on _earth_ is going on in _here_?” Waverly bellows as much as a mild-manner Englishman can.

Napoleon bats Illya’s hand off his face and keeps it away. “He—will _you_ cut that out— _started_ it!” he announces before kicking the other man in the stomach. He pops up to begin straightening out his appearance. “Honestly, Peril, where did you learn your manners?” Napoleon barks while adjusting a cufflink. “From wolves?”

Clutching his stomach, Illya only glares at him as he rises to his feet. Blood dribbles onto his chin and collarbone from where Napoleon split his lip, smeared over golden skin like a Pollock. Anger coils within the depths of Illya’s blue eyes, slowly retreating as he wordlessly stalks off to his room and slams the door.

 

* * *

 

“What did you say to him?” Gaby demands.

Napoleon moves the ice pack out of his way to sigh at her accusatory stare. “Why must you always assume that _I_ did something, Gaby?”

“Because _you_ most certainly did,” she hisses as she takes a seat across from him.

“ _I_ most certainly did not!” he fires back, wincing at the strain it causes his jaw. Napoleon harrumphs and goes back to relaxing in the armchair with his feet propped up on the coffee table. “I went over there to introduce myself and as soon as he opened the door, he _punched_ me.” He holds up two fingers. “ _Twice_ , no less! Even after I tried to say hello.”

Gaby scoffs. “Please don’t be offended when I tell you that I don’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth.”

He puts one finger down and nudges the remaining one closer to her, waving it in Gaby’s line of vision. “Please don’t be offended that I’ll do _this_ behind your back for the next week,” Napoleon informs her.

“But seriously,” she says, “what did you say to him?”

Napoleon groans. “ _Nothing_! Not a single thing!”

“Then explain to me why he would give you a black eye?”

“Perhaps he’s jealous of my striking good looks?” Napoleon opens his eye that isn’t starting to swell. “It’s only natural, darling,” he states with his most charming smile.

Gaby’s lips twitch as she tries not to laugh. “Has anyone ever told you how much of an idiot you are?”

“All of the time,” he replies as Waverly joins them. “What did the Red Peril have to say for himself? And by the way, when you said we’re taking him on, you forgot to mention it doesn’t get any more Russian than _him_!”

Waverly kicks Napoleon’s feet off the coffee table, much to the latter’s displeasure, and goes to pour himself a glass of water. “Mr. Kuryakin sends his apologies for today’s misunderstanding,” he tells them. “It seems you caught him as he was not quite awake from an earlier respite and was confused, a side effect of his medications.”

Napoleon makes an indignant sound and sits up, scowling. “That is a _lie_! He accidentally punched me in the face _twice_ because he was sleepwalking? Biggest pile of crap I’ve ever heard!”

“Mr. Solo,” Waverly says, genteelly, “do I need to remind you about the time you wandered out of University College Hospital in nothing but your t-shirt thanks to our friend morphine?”

His cheeks, all the way to his ears, immediately turn pink as Gaby begins to giggle. “Say it louder for those in the back,” Napoleon grouses.

“Not after I’ve had a drink,” Waverly retorts back, dry and dull as ever. “Mr. Kuryakin assured me that this outburst—” He glares at Napoleon who snorts in disbelief “—will _not_ be an issue and he’s eager to properly meet you both.”

Gaby beams at this while Napoleon sulks. “We’re eager to meet him as well,” she says sweetly.

“Speak for yourself,” Napoleon grumbles. The pointed tip of Gaby’s heel catches his shin, sending a stinging pain through his leg. “Hey!”

She bats her lashes like the traitor she is and says, “Must have slipped.”

 

* * *

 

It’s the early afternoon before they’re due to return to New York City and Napoleon is sipping on a chilled glass of Pastis while Gaby occupies herself with a fashion magazine.

Supposedly, this whole idea is Waverly’s in an attempt to smooth over any misunderstandings between Napoleon and Illya, which he finds laughable. The only thing he would like to smooth over is the spectacular bruising around his eye because, really, it clashes with his Tom Ford suit. Napoleon plucks a spoon off the table and squints into the rounded back to see if it’s getting any better.

“I told you I have some concealer you could borrow,” Gaby sing-songs without looking up.

Napoleon sniffs at the suggestion and sets the silverware down. “It probably won’t match, darling,” he says with a note of sadness. “Our skin tones are too different.”

“Would you like me to fetch some for you?” she offers.

“No thanks,” he replies. After a few moments and another glance in the spoon later, Napoleon decides to make the best of the situation. “It gives me a bit of a roguish quality; don’t you think? The boys and girls love a bad boy in a suit.”

Gaby pulls her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and rolls her eyes. “You’re an idiot,” she tells him before going back to her magazine.

“I prefer _opportunist_ ,” Napoleon corrects as a pair of figures catches his attention from his peripheral. He turns to observe, it’s only natural, and finds himself witnessing Waverly and Illya approaching the table.

Stiffness still governs Illya’s movements, though only a sharp eye would notice. He’s wearing _clothes_ again, so at least this man can _pretend_ to act like a human being in public. All in all, Illya Kuryakin cleans up well enough, if not a bit severe with his hairstyling which has been gelled down into an unmovable helmet, like something out of the 1960s.

Napoleon purses his lips together, bitterly thinking that Illya looked better when he was half-wild _and_ pummeling his face.

“Ms. Teller, Mr. Solo,” Waverly greets, giving eyes to Napoleon. One of his _behave yourself or else_ glares that Napoleon has grown so fond of. He gestures to Illya. “I’d like to introduce you to Illya Kuryakin.”

Gaby sets her magazine down and stands with her hand extended. She’s flashing the newest member of their team a sickeningly sweet smile. “Gaby,” she tells him. “I will be your and Mr. Solo’s handler.”

To Napoleon’s surprise, Illya takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, gently kissing her knuckles. “ _Schön, sie zu treffen_ ,” he replies in accented German.

“ _Ich wusste nicht, dass sie Deutsch gesprochen haben_ ,” Gaby says, clearly delighted by this discovery. A blush forms on her cheeks and Napoleon has to keep himself from visibly gagging while they converse in her first language.

Honestly, it’s a disgusting, manipulative gesture on Illya’s part and he should be _ashamed_.

“You remember Mr. Solo,” Waverly states in a careful tone as he nudges Illya in Napoleon’s direction.

He doesn’t stand up and prefers to glare at the other man, who offers one of his own. “Illya Kuryakin,” he says tonelessly. “FSB, the youngest member to join and pass in three years.”

Illya’s eyebrows raise. “Napoleon Solo,” he replies, “the CIA’s most effective agent.”

“Used to be,” Napoleon reminds him with an easy grin. “Before Waverly, here, plucked me from obscurity and into the arms of U.N.C.L.E.”

“I read about your side career as a criminal,” Illya continues, unaffected. “Your balls were on the end of a very long leash, held by a very short man.”

Napoleon makes an offended sound. “ _Now_ , that is no way to speak of dear Mr. Sanders!” he retorts sarcastically as he stands up and clasps Illya on the shoulder. “He’s a _very_ busy and important man for being so short. What about you? Was it your mother’s shame that gave you such drive…or was it her reputation?” He wags his brows, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. “I understand that she was _extremely_ popular amongst some of your old comrades.”

Rage flashes inside of Illya’s eyes. “My mother was a good woman,” he sneers.

“Just _how_ good, chum?” Napoleon inquires.

Waverly steps between them, giving Napoleon a shove back into his seat. “Why don’t we have a bite while get to know each other, hrm?”

Brunch is an awkward affair in which Gaby and Waverly nervously make conversation while Napoleon finds and Illya silently glare at each other from opposite sides of the table. The whole thing is straight of a slapstick comedy and, in hindsight, could be considered hilarious except that feeling still has its claws in the depths of Napoleon’s stomach.

It’s a terrible sensation like indigestion, except there is nothing Napoleon can do but stare into Illya’s blue eyes and think it’s entirely unfair for him to be so beautifully put together while still being a complete asshole. He’s seen beautiful faces before, has been buried up to his eyeballs in them, but none hold a candle to the inhumane devastation that is Napoleon’s new partner.

Even with his hate-filled eyes and poorly concealed look of contempt, Napoleon can’t help but want to ruin him. That fact, alone, is hilarious because Napoleon is loath to ruin beautiful things; after all, it’s why he began a career in art theft when the military released him.

Some of the places people kept Picassos, Singer Sargents, and a positively stunning sketch done by Van Gogh is truly appalling. Cellars, attics, a closet and all without protective measures to ensure their survival.

Napoleon figures if their owners refuse to appreciate what they have, it’s only far he steals it.

And now he finds himself in the crosshairs of a man whose chiseled face could have been created by Michelangelo or Da Vinci; Napoleon’s very worst nightmare come to life.

As he continues downing glass after glass of Pastis, he thinks _this can only end in disaster_.

 

* * *

 

While disaster is imminent, the unexpected as always is not.

Napoleon is busying himself with a laundry list of to-dos before he returns home, such as packing. He takes great care of his belongings and folds them into neat squares, then rolling them into bundles per the categories he deems appropriate for their use. One thing about Napoleon Solo is that he’s a bit obsessive when it comes to organization. He proudly owns a label maker he purchased himself, thank you very much, and takes joy in figuring out the configuring of his luggage.

Underwear goes with underwear, socks go with socks, and so on.

It’s also a way for him to decompress after sitting through three hours of Illya sending daggers at him with his eyes. Out of all of the uncomfortable situations, Napoleon has found himself in which are a lot and brunch with the Red Peril is probably at the top.

He’s zipping up his suits when a very aggressive knock nearly sends his door off the hinges. It’s decidedly not Gaby or Waverly, who would be shouting his name, but the person Napoleon wishes would go away. Sighing, he sets down the garment bag and crosses the room to let Illya inside. “Not very good at this whole subtlety thing, are you?” Napoleon quips.

Illya narrows his eyes at him. “We need to talk, _Cowboy_ ,” he declares, brushing passed Napoleon as he marches into the room.

“Before we do that,” Napoleon says as he reaches into the pocket of his pants. He saunters towards the other man and dumps a handful of crunched bugs onto the coffee table. “These. Are. Russian-made.”

Illya stares at them as his cheeks burn. “One moment.” He, too, retrieves his own trove of bugs and sets them down next to Napoleon’s pile. “These. Are. American-made,” Illya growls. “And _very_ low-tech.”

“Hmm, I bet the boys in R&D will disagree with you,” Napoleon responds, sniffing. Crossing his arms over his chest, he asks the obvious question. “What can I help you with, Peril?”

“ _Nothing_. You and I must work together, but know that I do not like you,” Illya snarls at him.

Napoleon throws his head back and laughs. “The feeling’s mutual, _partner_. In fact, I would prefer it our paths never crossed in the first place. What in God’s name were you even doing on that yacht? Hitching a ride to freedom?”

“That is none of your business, _Cowboy_!” Illya yells as he leaps to his feet. He towers over Napoleon, eyes blazing. “You run around in your fancy suits—” Illya lays his hands on Napoleon’s chest and shoves him. “—sticking your nose into other people’s business.”

Nonplussed, Napoleon tugs on the front of his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles away. “I think that’s an unfair accusation; it _was_ my business to be on board of Smirnov’s yacht if you ought to know. Waverly asked me to retrieve something from him—”

“You had _no business_ being there,” Illya counters. His shoulders rise like an animal ready to attack, brimming with the tension of bloodlust.

“I think _our_ employer would beg to differ, Peril,” Napoleon calmly points out.

Illya sneers. “Arrogant _pridurki_ like you have no idea what it’s like to lose everything!” He’s in Napoleon’s face again, nostrils flared and face coloring.

“ _You_ ,” Napoleon snarls defiantly, temper rising as he pushes Illya back, “don’t know _anything_ about me!”

The other man snorts. “You only care about your looks and how much money is in your bank accounts.”

“You’ve got me there,” Napoleon admits through gritted teeth. He shoves Illya back, sending him several footsteps back. “Though, I should warn you that I can be a very mean man when provoked.”

“You ruined _everything_!” Illya roars as he grabs the coffee table and flips it over. He grabs by Napoleon by the front of his shirt, running him back first into the opposite wall. His fists—probably sweaty; Illya seems like the type to have sweaty hands—bunch the delicate fabric.

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Whatever I alleged ruined couldn’t be everything,” he says. “Because that’s impossible. Perhaps using a word less…”

“Smirnov had information I needed!”

“What on earth could a scumbag like Smirnov have that you’d want?” Napoleon groans. While Illya is not his favorite person, he wouldn’t categorize him with someone as vile as Smirnov. It’s quite the compliment for someone _who is currently wrinkling his Giorgio Armani shirt_.

Illya’s entire body is shaking with rage and if Napoleon were a lesser man, he’d be nervous. “He knew who killed my mother!”

Words fail Napoleon as he stares, wide-eyed, at Illya, dying a terrible death. The room goes eerily still, all of the tension between them bleeding out through an invisible siphon. There’s no cease-fire or truce, just the realization of what Illya had at stake on that yacht and Napoleon’s part in unknowingly foiling it.

He came for information while Napoleon came to do his job. In the end, the risks Illya took—working for the very people who destroyed his family—were greater than he knew. Then either of them knew.

How long they look at each other, Napoleon cannot say. Seconds, moments, heartbeats—none of it can measure the time, only that he blinks and when he opens his eyes, his mouth is pressed against Illya’s.

Napoleon’s hands bury themselves into Illya’s hair, grabbing chunks of its immaculate styling and obliterating it as they bite each other’s lips. The first taste of the other man’s mouth shocks him to his core; like being stabbed, he muses, which he’s had the misfortune to experience.

Once the metal object has pierced the dermis layer, there is a lull between the moment the injured party realizes it and when pain blossoms.

There is no pain, only the sweetness of lust on Napoleon’s tongue. It rushes him, crashing over him, and sweeps him away as Illya licks his way into the hot cavern of his mouth. Napoleon moans into it because _Jesus Christ_ , the man can kiss.

And kiss and kiss.

He pulls Illya closer, wanting to feel the press of his body against his own. He’s warm like Napoleon expected, composed of hard lines and muscles under far too many layers of clothes. Illya’s breath hitches when his clothed erection brushes against Napoleon’s inseam and right then, Napoleon decides that despite their earlier disagreement they need to be naked _immediately_.

Napoleon pushes Illya backward, stumbling forth as he guides them towards the unmade bed. Hands fumble with buttons, zippers, and fabric, removing each article hurriedly. The moment his fingers touch Illya’s bare skin—more importantly, his broad chest—Napoleon can only groan.

He’s used to the usual proclivities during sex— _you’re so hot, I want you inside of me, your cock is so perfect_ —and what have you. Napoleon’s been guilty of uttering them during his dalliances and has had them whispered into his ear. Each declaration filthier than the next, raunchier than before, detailing all the things that he and his partner will do to each other.

With Illya, he doesn’t have words, only action. He shoves him onto the bed while simultaneously ripping his trousers off, flinging them to some far reach of the room. The other man is only covered by the material of his black boxer briefs where there’s precum wetting the crotch.

And the way Illya is staring at him; it’s like being immolated.

Napoleon says nothing as he places one knee, then the other on the mattress and begins another demanding kiss. Illya’s breath hitches through his body until their chests touch and releases a muffled groan as he cups the back of Napoleon’s head.

Hands travel down the curve of Napoleon’s neck to his shoulders, lifting his unbuttoned shirt off them and removing it from his body. They dance back up the length of his arms, tapping fingertips into his skin like Morse Code. Napoleon teases Illya’s plush bottom lip, nipping at it while he roams over the plane of his torso and thinking _fuck, I ought to spend more time on abdominals_ as he finds the waistband of the other man’s underwear.

He moves, wanting to taste what else Illya has to offer. A series of open-mouthed kisses, wet and sloppy, create an invisible trail down the other man’s body as Napoleon seeks out what’s hiding in Illya’s boxer briefs. He finds an erection burning just as hotly as his own underneath cotton, silky and throbbing, peeking out from a bloom of foreskin. Napoleon captures Illya’s moan following the first firm stroke of his hand. The motion seems to string Illya up by an unseen cord, pressing their bodies together when Napoleon goes it again.

“Loving your work, _Cowboy_ ,” Illya quips, cheeks flushed and lips bruised from kissing.

Napoleon gazes up at him and decides he’s going to fuck that smug grin right off his face.

He rolls Illya onto his stomach and bites the meat of his shoulder, sucking on the skin until it purples under Napoleon’s mouth. Illya tenses under him, going as far as to grab his wrist.

Napoleon is faster, of course, because he is Napoleon Solo, sex demon _and_ spy extraordinaire, after all.

He pins Illya’s wrists to the mattress, drinking in the sight of the other man arching into him, muscles rippling and twitching with movement as he keens brokenly.

 _That’s surprising_ , Napoleon muses to himself and something he’ll have to explore later, but for now…

He reaches for the tube of lubricant on the bedside table and uncaps it with his mouth. “Those,” Napoleon whispers harshly as he indicates Illya’s pinned wrists, “ _stay_ right there.”

The shudder of anticipation Illya emits is fucking _delightful_. Truly; Napoleon wishes he had the foresight to capture it on film.

As he squeezes the contents of the tube onto his fingers, Illya stays perfectly still save for the rise and fall of his ragged breathing. Two bandages cover still healing bullet wounds, which will one day turn silver as they quietly fade into retirement, God willing. Napoleon rubs the clear solution, warming it as he yanks Illya’s underwear off him.

 _Christ_ , he’s beautiful.

“You know,” Napoleon drawls as he runs a hand up and down Illya’s flank, “I did not picture our conversation going this way.”

“ _Cowboy_ ,” Illya growls. “Put out or shut up!”

Napoleon chokes on his laughter; he doesn’t need to be told twice. Running his lube-coated fingers over the dusky crease between Illya’s ass cheeks, he inches closer and closer with each pass. Illya is squirming by the time Napoleon brushes over the puckered skin of his hole and Napoleon _loves_ it.

He also loves the way Illya’s moan cuts off when Napoleon sinks his fingertip into the piping hotness of him, gently wetting and preparing the rim for something more intrusive. Napoleon toys with him, testing out what Illya enjoys and what makes him go shock-still with pleasure; he’s not one to rush foreplay.

Illya pushes back on him, his ass swallowing all of Napoleon’s index finger, whimpering for more when Napoleon decides to indulge him. He adds another digit alongside the first, slowly, slowly, slowly until the other man releases a sound, unlike anything Napoleon’s heard before.

For all he hates the man, he can’t help but glance up to drink in how Illya responds to him. His skin has taken on the flush of arousal, all pink and goose-pimpled as he’s draped over the bed. A lewd masterpiece only for Napoleon to see. Sweat gathers upon the small of Illya’s back, where Napoleon leans over to lap it up. It tastes saltier than his mouth, but decadent all the same. On the second pass, he finds Illya’s prostate.

The reaction of his fingers pressing into the gland is both instantaneous _and_ arousing. Illya’s body jerks like a live wire, sparking and heaving with each caress. Napoleon gasps as the other man tightens around him and releases, an indication of what’s to come.

And if Napoleon has it his way, it will be Illya and himself.

He works a third finger inside of Illya as Napoleon runs his tongue over the thin skin of Illya’s perineum. It’s a bit unnecessary since he’s all moans and what Napoleon is certain are filthy Russian phrases, but if anything, Napoleon wants to make Illya remember this whenever he happens to look over at him.

 _You may not like me_ , Napoleon thinks, _but I’m going to be the best fuck you’ve ever had._

Illya cries out, bucking his hips for more, and Napoleon is ready to give him just that.

He withdraws his fingers and removes himself from his trousers, shoving them down to mid-thigh along with his underwear. Grabbing the lube, he slicks both himself and Illya’s hole up and goes to line himself up. Napoleon pushes in without preamble, filling up Illya’s passage with his cock. The sensation of breaching him nearly undoes him.

Napoleon hasn’t bothered with searching for a condom and if Illya’s keens are any indication, he does not give a fuck.

“ _Eschyo_ ,” Illya intones, shuddering around Napoleon’s cock.

He pets the other man’s flank. “I’ll give you more,” Napoleon promises, closing his eyes. He eases himself into Illya with short, shallow thrusts until his balls brushing against Illya’s perfect ass. Napoleon bites his lip, suppressing a groan building his throat. “ _Peril_ , fuck.”

Illya’s hands claw at the sheets in return and grunt.

Napoleon blinks his eyes open to the perfection of Illya’s profile set against Egyptian Cotton. How lovely he will look once Napoleon has ruined him and the very seed of his Russian composure. He’s going to make sure that Illya is limping all the way to the jet tomorrow and into next week.

Pulling out, he shoves himself back in again, changing the canter and angle of his hips until Illya is all but gasping and begging under him. Napoleon digs his nails into Illya’s skin, seeking out his prostate with each thrust until Illya lets out a howl that makes Napoleon glad that he’s the only agent staying in this wing.

Napoleon continues his assault on Illya by fucking him harder to hear more of those lovely groans fall from his mouth. He reaches between the other man’s legs, feeling his generously endowed cock against his palm, still leaking and throbbing.

Illya cries out again, impaling himself further on Napoleon’s cock.

He takes Illya in hand and strokes him, bringing him to the edge of orgasm before changing something about his rhythm. Illya curses at him, his voice broken and needy and still wanting more.

More than anything, Napoleon would love to hear him beg, but alas, his own climax is gaining momentum.

Without another word, Napoleon fucks him right into what sounds like one hell of an orgasm before finding his own release. It slams into him, whiting out his vision as the free fall begins and shatters Napoleon’s sense of time. His body erupts, pouring itself into Illya’s still clenching hole until they both collapse on top of each other.

How long they lie there, neither of them know.

“We can never do this again,” Illya tells him once he can speak.

Napoleon is staring up at the ceiling when he nods in reply. He turns his head to look at him and says, “I know.”

And yet, they reach for each other anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing is more awkward than running into the person you spent the night fucking on an eleven-hour flight.

Adding to the fact that Napoleon is currently sitting across the aisle from said person, who limped their way onto the private jet and is currently giving him the cold shoulder...well, there isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to make this any less awful. Not to mention that they didn’t even look at or speak to each other in the morning as Illya quietly gathered his clothes and left his room.

Truthfully, Napoleon has had his fair share of some subpar morning afters, including being thrown out of his partner’s dwelling because their husband/wife/parents (only once, thankfully) would be arriving soon. To be rejected when only hours before they were groping him stings a bit, but Napoleon is a grown man. He knows what type of image he projects—that fling with a handsome stranger one always remembers, but never speaks of—and takes comfort in never having to see them again.

But Illya isn’t going anywhere; far from it. They’re stuck together for the foreseeable future because they’re on the same team, which means Napoleon is going to be seeing a lot of Illya.

Seeing him isn’t the problem because he’s already seen everything the other man has to offer and, _damn_ , it’s a wondrous thing. It’s just…Napoleon has to _interact_ with him.

Which is definitely not happening right now.

Napoleon harrumphs into his drink and tilts the glass so the remnants fall into his mouth. It’s mostly scotch flavored ice, but he’s taking all he can get since Waverly will probably cut him off midway through because he’s a traitorous bastard. Napoleon begins noisily sucking on ice while he watches a cinematic masterpiece on Gaby’s iPad (she’s currently napping and what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt her). It’s a romantic comedy featuring the chap from _Pride & Prejudice_ and the woman who declared to Tom Cruise ‘You had me at hello’; Napoleon has been rolling his eyes since the first five minutes and is debating the merits of downloading musicals onto the device.

He chews on the last of the ice and motions to the in-flight hostess with his empty glass, smiling when she acknowledges his request. As he returns his attention to the film, Napoleon hears the sound of someone clearing their throat. For a moment he wonders if Gaby has caught him after she implicitly told him not to use the iPad and cranes his head. Napoleon finds her to be fast asleep under his jacket with only the top of her ponytail sticking out.

Shrugging to himself, he chalks it up to nothing while the film’s storyline about an employee sleeping with her employer strikes a little _too_ close to home. Except Illya is also an employee; even so, Napoleon curses himself for thinking with his cock rather than common sense. Granted, this _situation_ is also Illya’s fault because _he_ kissed _Napoleon_ first, so they’re both idiots.

Just thinking about having Illya under him the night before causes all of the blood in his body to rush towards his groin. Napoleon hadn’t anticipated how he’d react, though a prude came to mind. A cold, stiff sort of man who made no sound or indicated his pleasure. Basically, a corpse. Then Illya was arching against him; vocal, lovely, and utterly ruined by the time sleep claimed them both.

He had spent hours worshipping Illya’s body with hands and mouth when he wasn’t fucking him. Napoleon licked each peak and valley of the other man’s abdomen until he came to a thatch of light brown hair leading back to his cock. Like the rest of him, Illya’s dick is a sight to behold: a shade of pink darker than the rest of him, long and the right amount of girth, and with a head whose flared edges certainly left Napoleon’s throat sore.

It’s all well and good, though; he was able to feast upon the salty taste of Illya until he left the man trembling out of sheer fatigue. Smugly, Napoleon suspects not many could say the same since Illya doesn’t seem like the sort to share his body freely.

Illya did his own damage to Napoleon’s person, besides the black eye. Underneath his suit is finger-shaped bruises adorning the skin spanning his shoulders and hips. Napoleon’s collar barely conceals a hickey that suspiciously resembles a mouth belonging to a certain Russian double agent sitting nearby.

The arrival of his freshly made scotch on ice interrupts his thoughts, which he sips on until the film is featuring a rather unimpressive fight between two gentlemen who go at it like pansies. Chugging the rest of his drink, Napoleon rolls his eyes at their dramatics and begins chewing on the ice when he hears someone clearing their throat again.

Someone being Illya, who is glaring at him despite not even looking in Napoleon’s direction.

Removing an earbud, he leans on the armrest of his seat and smiles. “Did you need something, Peril?” Napoleon waits for any sort of acknowledgment that never comes because Illya’s entire personality seems to be encased in a block of ice. He rests his chin in his palm and stares at him for a few minutes.

“Peril,” Napoleon sing-songs after growing bored. He reaches across the aisle and flicks the exposed skin of Illya’s wrist. “Peril…”

The flash of anger in Illya’s eyes as he flares his nostrils is utterly delightful. “What do you want, Cowboy?”

“Question is what do _you_ want?” He tilts his head, still smiling. “Throat lozenges? Honey on a spoon? Perhaps some warm water with salt…”

“I want,” Illya hisses through clenched teeth, “you to _stop_ chewing on ice.”

Napoleon’s jaw goes slack because really? All those dramatics over chewing ice? “I beg your pardon?”

“I dislike the sound; it’s annoying,” Illya states as he turns his attention back to his book.

“It’s annoying?” Napoleon presses.

He gets out of his seat and forces himself into the row that Illya is occupying, much to Illya’s protest. Napoleon climbs over the other man’s long legs, not caring if his ass brushes over Illya’s lap or that his suit is getting wrinkled in the chaos. In the end, Napoleon makes himself comfortable and runs his hands over his clothing while Illya mutters in incoherent Russian. “Are you always such a bore?”

“Are you always this unpleasant to be around?” Illya fires back, long fingers turning a page from his book.

Napoleon pushes the cover up to reveal its title and lets out a groan. “ _Crime and Punishment_? Really, Peril? Why don’t you wave the Russian flag for fuck’s sake!” He slaps it away, still appalled. “Do you want to make sure we know what country you’re from?”

“It’s a good book,” Illya bristles as he runs his hand over the cover. “Dostoyevsky is regarded as one of the greatest and most influential novelists of the Golden Age.”  
  
“Of what?”

Illya’s cheeks color at Napoleon’s question. “Of _Russia_.” He settles back into his seat and waves dismissively. “Now go away.”

“Not so fast,” Napoleon tells him. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Are things between us going to continue to be…” He notices Illya glaring again and holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey! I’m just doing a temperature check on behalf of our team.”

Illya sniffs at him and goes back to his book rather than answering. Napoleon purses his lips together; it’s an important question and one that does affect them. Gaby is quick to catch onto any awkwardness and soon, she’ll know that they slept together.

Then Napoleon will _never_ hear the end of it.

“Peril,” he says.

“What?” Illya snaps, turning back to him. He looks so much more attractive when resembling an angry bear that Napoleon is tempted to lean over and kiss him.

You know—just to see what will happen. Then again, he doesn’t fancy another black eye.

“I asked you a question,” Napoleon reminds him as if he’s speaking to a child.

Illya snorts. “I refuse to answer.”

“Well,” Napoleon huffs, annoyed. He goes to stand up and climb back over Illya to his own seat when he ducks down to hiss, “you certainly didn’t _refuse_ my cock in your ass! _Three times_ , no less!”

Illya turns a shade of red previously unknown to the color spectrum.

“If you’d like to forget it happened, that’s perfectly fine by me,” Napoleon continues as he struggles over the other man’s ridiculously long legs. “In fact, it’s probably the best solution. Besides, I doubt you could handle _another_ night with me, old boy.” Once he’s standing in the aisle, he claps Illya on the shoulder with a broad smile. “You seemed to be slowing down during our last go around; perhaps working on your cardio wouldn’t go amiss.”

The dumbstruck look on Illya’s face and getting caught by Gaby for stealing her iPad without asking because of the ruckus he’s making is _definitely_ worth wrinkling his trousers. As she tears into him while Illya quietly sulks, Napoleon considers it a win.

 

* * *

 

Being back in the hubbub of New York City is a welcomed change from traveling the world.

Not to say that Napoleon doesn’t enjoy travel. It’s just there are times at night where he misses being in his own bed and in his own surroundings. Napoleon is not a sentimental sort of person—far from it—and just likes being comfortable. He’s certain it stems from some serious abandonment issues, which he soothes by having a talent for art thief and champagne taste.

Any therapist, including those at the CIA, would have a field day with his psyche; alas, Napoleon doesn’t have time or patience to lie back on a couch and reveal his deepest, darkest secrets.

Waverly’s given them a week before they have to reconvene at U.N.C.L.E HQ, thank goodness. It means seven days until he has to see Illya’s stupidly handsome face again. Napoleon only hopes that time apart will quiet his growing attraction towards the other man since it’s unusual for his attention to last beyond a day or two. He’s had the good fortune of sleeping with many beautiful men and women, so it’s not that. There’s something about Illya that Napoleon wants to contain, to dominate and protect while also annoying the ever-loving shit out of him.

 _It’s nothing,_ he assures himself when he wakes from a dream where Illya is the main feature. Just a shiny new toy to play with until it’s time to move onto the next thing. Because Napoleon Solo doesn’t love anyone but himself and art (and probably Gaby, in a sisterly way). He has a devil-may-care outlook on life and there is no room for the complications that come from falling in love. Napoleon is perfectly content to be alone in his condo on his week off and share his bed with _no one_.

Two nights into his homecoming, it seems that Illya, who is staying at the Ritz-Carlton, doesn’t get this memo because he shows up on Napoleon’s doorstep at three in the morning.

Napoleon is startled out of another dream featuring Illya by his doorbell ringing incessantly and is quick to grab his pistol taped to the underside of the bed frame before going to investigate. Bewildered and half-asleep, he stalks through his own home until he reaches the intercom system. “‘Ello?” he asks, groggily.

“Cowboy,” Illya hisses into the speaker. “Let me in.”

Stunned, he does and opens the front door to his home just as Illya comes out of the elevator with a single suitcase and pillow tucked under his arm. Napoleon scratches his head as the other man breezes by him with the simple explanation of “I cannot sleep in that hotel, so I will stay here. How do you Americans deal with noise all of the time?”

“Huh,” is all Napoleon manages to say as he shuts and locks the door behind him. Once his brain takes in the situation, he begins asking questions while following Illya through the condo. “How did you know where I lived?”

Illya pokes his head into what turns out to be an office and sniffs. “Waverly told me.”

“And why on earth would he do that?” Napoleon demands. He hates having to share his personal space with anyone and is beginning to feel the beginnings of an anxiety attack building as Illya continues going through his things to find the guest room.

In addition to a long list of neurosis, Napoleon does not share well. “ _THIRD_ —” He shouts while he ushers the other man away from his private and highly illegal art collection, “door on the left,” Napoleon finishes, albeit more softly.

This earns a curious stare from Illya as he steps inside and flicks on the light. “Short notice,” he answers while looking around the room, then dumping his meager belongings on top of the bed. Illya sits down on the mattress, testing its buoyancy as Napoleon looks on. “He said you were closer and probably awake at this hour.”

“Well I wasn’t,” Napoleon grouses haughtily, folding his arms over his bare chest. “Contrary to what Waverly believes, I _do_ stay in once and awhile.”

Illya raises a brow in silent contradiction, which ruffles Napoleon’s feathers and makes him curse Illya for appearing so damn pretty when being a smartass. This man literally knows nothing about him, aside from what’s in his file and how Napoleon looks naked.

Then again, a lot of people across the world know what he looks like naked.

“Linens are in the hallway closet,” Napoleon tells him, gesturing towards its general direction. “The guest bathroom is across from you and if you need anything, you’ll just have to fend for yourself, seeing how you just barged in here.”

A sigh comes from Illya’s parted lips. “Goodnight, Cowboy,” he says with finality.

“Goodnight Peril,” Napoleon replies and begins to depart when he leans back into the doorway. “And don’t go poking around like I know you want to. We are _civilized_ in New York City.”

“ _We_ are _also_ civilized in Moscow,” he hears Illya firing back as he goes to leave.

Napoleon makes certain that his unexpected guest hears the loud, disbelieving snort before slamming the door to his bedroom shut.

 

* * *

 

Having Illya back in close proximity leaves Napoleon with mixed emotions.

Either way, the tension is palpable whenever they’re in the same room, let alone the same home. So Napoleon busies himself with all the small projects he’s wanted to do after Marseilles while Illya goes off to do whatever he does during the day.

The condo is a source of pride for him, having purchased it after his first CIA mission. It’s a perfect mixture of an industrial loft and modern craftsmanship with its exposed brick walls, timber beams, and columns to contrast the floor to ceiling windows. Sure, there is the potential to be a bit of a logistical nightmare if someone attacked him, but from the moment Napoleon saw it, he knew it would be his. He purchased it in cash and had it deeded to a fake corporation to protect himself.

Over time, Napoleon carefully chose the furnishings, linens, and decor until he was satisfied. Sure it’s too big for a single person, but it’s his home. The first in many years for him and there isn’t a day that Napoleon isn’t happy with it.

Except when he has to share it with Illya.

To be fair, Illya is a model guest—he makes his own bed, keeps the room neat, is all-around respectful—and then Napoleon remembers how much he wants to punch his stupid Russian face in. Or fuck him stupid, which is a sentiment that Illya also shares.

The first time it happens is late at night while Napoleon is lying in bed, having just crawled into it. He flicks off the light when the door creaks open and suddenly, Illya is standing there naked, bathed in moonlight that finds every curve of his body. Napoleon pushes himself up as the other man comes inside and strides over to him, half-hard cock bobbing between his legs with a look of determination on his face.

“Peri—” Napoleon begins to say until Illya’s mouth silences him. He grunts at the taste of him; of the peppermint toothpaste in the guest bathroom and something yet to be identified.

Not that Napoleon actually cares; he has a lapful of Illya on top of him and the pressure of the other man’s grinding hips against his suddenly interested cock. He skims his hands down the length of Illya’s back, finding smooth, well-muscled skin until he cups two very firm buttocks. Kneading and digging his nails into them, bringing Illya closer and lets go to tangle one of his hands in Illya’s hair.

He notices that the blond strands are softer when Illya hasn’t overloaded it with product and far easier to wind around Napoleon’s fingers. He tugs, earning a whimper from the other man that makes him curse into their kiss. Illya’s mouth is warm and welcoming, despite whatever reservations he has towards Napoleon’s character; with sex, he lets him in without question and that’s fine.

Napoleon inches his hand over the curve of Illya’s ass, running his fingers between his crack to tease him enough so he makes that broken, ruined sound again. Anything to hear this man lose his icy composure and submit himself over to pleasure. Napoleon rubs the underside of a butt cheek before venturing up towards the very place he wants to bury himself into. Illya gasps and bows, their chests touching as Napoleon continues onward.

The first swipe against Illya’s hole leads Napoleon to break their kiss out of shock. He finds his fingertips coated with a generous amount of lube. He thinks of Illya prepping himself in the privacy of the bathroom or guest room, working each finger into himself; twisting and stretching until he can’t take it any longer.

“Peril,” Napoleon whispers, laughter soaking his voice as he flips Illya onto his back. “You’ve been bad.”

Shoving his pajama bottoms off his body and under the comforter, Napoleon brings Illya’s legs over his shoulders and plunges into him without another second to spare. He shares a groan with the other man because, fuck, the heat and tightness of him are intoxicating.

Napoleon tugs on Illya’s hair as his hips snap into him and punches each noise Illya makes out into the open for both of them to hear. God, it shouldn’t feel this good; it shouldn’t sound this good either. Napoleon knows they shouldn’t be doing this.

But they do it anyway. Until it’s nearly dawn and Illya is slipping out of Napoleon’s bed to go to his own.

 

* * *

 

Suffice to say, they continue this pattern for the remainder of their time off.

Hate sex is a word for it, except Napoleon isn’t entirely sure if he even feels that way towards Illya, who seems to share his sentiments. Indulging in carnal delights has tempered the tension between them, possibly leading to a successful partnership, though that remains to be seen. Napoleon isn’t going to complain; he’s sleeping with a beautiful man, whose face he may or may not want to punch in. The lack of need to woo Illya or leave his house is also a plus—they just fuck until they’re both wrung out and trembling from fatigue, unable to muster another second wind out of sheer exhaustion.

He learns things about Illya he’s certain that not many people know. Like how he likes it rough, to have his wrists pinned down to the mattress or above his head, to be told what to do, to beg. And Illya does it so prettily.

There’s his accented baritone thick with arousal and a hint of fear as he switches between English and Russian. Or how his cheeks flush bright pink when Napoleon traces over them with his thumb while Illya watches under a fan of dark lashes. Or the way he arches into Napoleon’s touch, jaw slack and mouth letting loose a strangled, incoherent cry of pleasure.

Napoleon also discovers things about Illya that aren’t of a sexual nature. One, in particular, stands out amongst the rest and gives him pause when Napoleon dwells upon; a battered Minerva Chronograph made of stainless steel which Illya keeps on the bedside table when it’s not fastened to his wrist. The face is stained with age and use, while the leather has most certainly been replaced. It’s clear to Napoleon that the timepiece is well cared for, though its origin isn’t something he’s going to inquire about. A family heirloom, perhaps? A gift passed from father to son or just a trinket Illya picked up on a mission. He really doesn’t need to know; it’s best to keep things simple, impersonal.

It’s not the smartest thing Napoleon’s ever done, but definitely not the stupidest.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Life returns to normal.

For a U.N.C.L.E agent anyway.

Napoleon enjoys the jet set life; Cairo one week and Madrid the next. Quezon City, Chongqing and Beijing, Ankara, Lausanne, Turin—the destinations, like their missions, grow and grow. Sometimes they’re in a large metropolis, other times an unnamed town so small that it will never appear on a map. Freezing weather, dry heat, humidity, and rain comes in endless succession. Jet lag might be a bitch, but Napoleon doesn’t mind. Sure, he gets shot at or has to defuse a bomb on occasion but he has the opportunity to experience something different.

If someone had told a fresh-faced, just-out-of-college Napoleon Solo that one day he would be traveling the world and have wealth beyond his wildest imagination, he’d probably laugh in their face.

On the other hand, if the same person said he would be secretly fucking a brusque, pain in the ass of a man who enjoys glaring more than talking…well…

“ _Obviously_ ,” Napoleon would say.

 

* * *

 

They’re in Puerto Rico when Napoleon finds that Illya, of all people, has a jealous streak.

It’s a honeypot mission, one involving wooing the neglected girlfriend of another very bad man who is nothing like Sergei Smirnov at a cocktail party. Apparently, he might have intel on a man who enjoys human experimentation and that they’ve been chasing across the globe for months; Napoleon doesn’t know.

What he _does_ know is that it’s a muggy evening and if it weren’t for the air conditioning inside the ballroom, Napoleon’s brand new Thom Browne button-down and Tom Ford suit would be drenched with sweat.

It’s like a dance; an incredibly intimate one.

In this case, the woman standing before him is Valeria Busigó, who also happens to be enraptured by every bullshit thing coming out of Napoleon’s mouth. She winds her dark hair around a finger and tilts her head so the amber glow of the ballroom catches in her brown eyes. Napoleon would be lying if he didn’t say that Valeria wasn’t beautiful; luscious curves tastefully accentuated by her gold gown with legs for miles and sun-kissed skin. And intelligent, as it turns out.

The type of woman he would take back to his hotel room with or without a mission.

They’re discussing art when Illya’s arrival catches Napoleon’s attention from his peripheral. Scratch that; like a spotlight is on him and the room goes dark around the edges like they’re in some sort of musical. Except Illya doesn’t burst into song or begin dancing—Napoleon reckons he doesn’t know how to either of these things or have fun, for that matter—he stalks down the staircase, eyes steely, ready for action while remaining a vision in a navy blue suit. A shade suiting his golden coloring and a cut highlighting his strong body.

Gaby must have helped him pick it out because Illya is a drunkard when it comes to the looks that God and genetics bestowed upon him. He doesn’t seem to understand the effect he has on people or he’s so cold-hearted that he doesn’t care.

Then again, Napoleon has seen how Illya is around Gaby; their camaraderie is easy and friendly. He _actually_ smiles in her company, a lovely thing that curls his lips, revealing a straight line of white teeth and faint dimples on either side of his mouth. It pulls at his eyes, brightening their blue depths and relaxes his usual glare. Something inside of Illya rattles loose when he’s with Gaby; perhaps she reminds him of someone from his past; his mother, maybe, as Gaby can be very motherly.

It almost makes Napoleon jealous.

While Valeria debates the hidden symbolism in Da Vinci paintings, Napoleon only half-heartedly engages her with nods and _uh-huhs_. He watches Illya watching the room, eyes committing each person to memory as he wanders. A glass of champagne is plucked from a silver tray, the stem held between long fingers; fingers Napoleon’s sucked on and tangled between his own as he fucks Illya through whatever surface they’re against. He’s felt the callouses upon them and the rest of his hand, either by accidentally brushing up against or caressing them when Illya allows it.

“Mr. Brompton?” Valeria asks, tilting her head as she touches Napoleon’s shoulder. “Sean?”

Napoleon blinks, shaking it off with a smile. “Yes, darling?” he purrs with a faux British accent. He inches closer to Valeria’s sphere.

“You were distracted,” she states, pouting. “Has someone else taken your attention away?”

“No,” Napoleon replies, drawing out the vowel of the word. He reaches for Valeria’s dark waves, gently tucking them behind her ear. “Actually, I lied.” Her features begin melting into a frown. “You are so beautiful and intelligent; it’s hard to not to get distracted by _you_.”

Shit line, but it works.

A pleased smile appears on her lacquered red lips. “Distract you?” Valeria echoes with a giggle. “I didn’t think anything distracted you.”

Napoleon chuckles, lifting his drink to his lips. “ _Au contraire, ma cherie_ ,” he says before drinking. “There are many things that distract me. Shall I tell you about them?”

To lie and lie well is an art form. It’s something Napoleon has had a lot of experience with from adolescence to now. He’s been able to hide his tells over time until not even the finest agents, including Waverly, can see through his rouse.

Only Gaby calls him on his bullshit. Then again, it makes sense, since she is the most intelligent person Napoleon has ever encountered.

So he continues flirting with Valeria, whether it be next to the bar where they can look out at the party attendees and gossip about them or on the dance floor because, frankly, Napoleon loves a good waltz. His hand curls around the base of her spine, holding Valeria close as they move to the music.

There’s something seductive about being led across the floor; like a taste of honey that melts upon one’s tongue. Valeria opens up to Napoleon like any other target of his. She falls for his charming smile, sparkling blue eyes, even the cleft on his chin. She playfully slaps his shoulder when Napoleon makes a bad joke and runs his fingernails through the hair on the back of his head as they sway to a slower song.

He’s her new dream man for the evening; someone who pays attention to her and says all the right things. Sure, Valeria will be cursing his name once she realizes Sean Brompton is only out to destroy her boyfriend’s drug empire, but for now, she’ll lose herself in fantasy. Napoleon used to be feel bad about the rouse, but when the positives (i.e.: saving the world) outweighed the negatives, he realizes how beneficial a honeypot mission can be.

“Sean,” Valeria whispers into his ear.

Napoleon notes the hint of alarm in her voice and pulls back to find confusion wrinkling her forehead. “Yes, darling. Is something the matter?”

“There is a man staring at you,” she says, jutting her chin towards the other side of the party. “I can’t tell if he wants to cut in or kill you.”

“Perhaps both?” Napoleon jokes, ducking into peck her cheek as she giggles. He spins her around to see which man Valeria is referring to and finds himself in the crosshairs of Illya’s steely gaze.

Even though he’s across the room, Napoleon feels the jealous heat radiating off the other man; the space between them is sticky with it.

It pulls at his eyes and mouth, turning them into tight lines and if anything, making Illya’s blue irises appear even brighter. He raises his glass to his lips and takes a sip while holding Napoleon’s stare. Nothing about him falters even after being caught. While most would find this posturing very oppressive or even intimidating—because let’s face it, _it is—_ Napoleon feels all of the blood in his body rushing towards a specific part of his body. One that he’d like to bury into Illya’s tight ass as soon as this mission is over. Or his mouth; whichever appeals to him the most.

“Darling,” Napoleon drawls sweetly as he breaks eye contact with Illya. “Perhaps we should adjourn to a place that allows us more privacy?”

Valeria beams at him, taking hold of the arm Napoleon offers to her and following his lead as they leave the party. Outside, the Puerto Rican evening is pleasantly balmy - perfect for a nightcap on a balcony off one of their bedrooms where Napoleon will continue to seduce his target.

An unfamiliar pang stirs within his chest as he holds the door open for Valeria. He wishes her luscious body was one made of hard lines and even harder muscle and her unblemished skin was littered with scars hiding underneath pieces of clothing. He wants a deep accented baritone whose words could cut through him rather than Valeria’s charming lilt.

Napoleon wants Illya. That’s all there is to it.

“Sean,” Valeria calls from inside the limo. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, darling,” he replies, going to slide across the leather seat. All thoughts of Illya are pushed out of his head because he has a mission to do. Being sidetracked by his partner will do him no favors when it comes time to woo Valeria into bed.

Well, it would have if it weren’t for the sudden spray of a very foul smelling and strong sedative being waved in his face. Napoleon inhales it before he has time to think, tumbling down an endless hole of darkness with only a groan as he hits the backseat.

Coming to, on the other hand, is far more eventful than losing consciousness.

Napoleon would have dwelt in the latter if it wasn’t for the sting of someone backhanding him. “Not the face,” he tries to warn. His speech is slurred by the drug while his tongue feels like it might have shriveled up and died inside of his mouth. Blinking furiously, Napoleon finds himself in a very familiar setting—a dank, dark room with a single light hanging overhead and a chair, which he is currently tied to.

 _And_ to make matter worse, his jacket— _his brand-fucking-new Tom Ford suit jacket_ —is _missing_.

“It _is_ a lovely face,” Valeria agrees as she stands in front of him with two henchmen flanking either side of her, looking just as menacing as every other bad guy Napoleon’s encountered. “Too bad I must butcher it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Must you?”

“Drop the accent,” she demands. Valeria nods at her lackey on the left, who wanders away to do her bidding. “I know who you are, Napoleon Solo.”

Sighing, he nods. “Ah, it seems you’ve got me,” Napoleon tells her, smiling. He tugs at the rope wrapped around his wrists and chest. “Perhaps we could do away with the props and talk about things like normal adults.”

Valeria scoffs. “ _Adultos_ ,” she mutters. “You sound just like Pedro, _pobre bastardo_.”

“Ah yes, the boyfriend,” Napoleon says. He fidgets again. “Tell me, where is dear Pedro this evening?”

One of the cronies comes back in with a cloth covered tray while Valeria stares at Napoleon. “Pedro _está muerto_. I’m surprised you hadn’t figured it out already.”

“Actually, I had,” he replies, eyes following the tray as it’s set down on the table laid out to the side of him. “I just wanted your verification. Shame that he and I never got to meet.”

Valeria shrugs. “He was like every other man who grasps for power; arrogant, vain, stupid. Pedro underestimated me.”

“An utter crime on his part,” Napoleon agrees. He tilts his head. “Never underestimate the lamb.”

“Precisely,” Valeria tells him as she uncovers the tray, revealing variously sized knives. They range in blade thickness and length, though all of them are polished to perfection.

Napoleon spares them a glance before turning his gaze to the ceiling, clenching his fists. Knives are his least favorite form of torture, especially when the welder knows how to use them. “Hobby of yours?”

“You could say that,” Valeria says cryptically.

“Let’s skip over your speech about how you’re going to make this interrogation very painful for me and get to the cutting,” Napoleon says, unimpressed, “because I’ve got to warn you that man you saw watching us at the party will be here in _any_ minute. He’s a bit of a killjoy when it comes to private entertainment.”

Valeria feigns a convincing pout. “Really? I even had it memorized,” she replies as she picks up a rather thin blade and snaps her fingers with her other hand.

Like that, the other thug walks over to Napoleon and grabs either side of his shirt. “I’ll have you know,” he protests over the sound of the fabric ripping and buttons flying off. He sighs. “This _was_ an expensive shirt. _Really?_ Was that necessary?”

The reply to his question comes in the form of a blade being sunk into the meat of his thigh. He feels it tearing through skin and muscle before being slapped with the beginnings of agony. Napoleon grits his teeth so hard that his jaw aches; he doesn’t want to give Valeria the satisfaction of his screams as she removes the knife, now dripping with his blood.

“That was a warning,” Valeria tells him as she selects a thinner blade. She walks back to him and presses the tip into his chest, applying pressure but not enough to cut. “Now, who do you work for?”

Napoleon chuckles darkly. “Jumping right into it, I suppose.”

Valeria cuts a line over his nipple, grinning as he swallows back a cry of pain. “Answer the question.”

“I work for a man who is very busy and important,” Napoleon replies. His other pectoral meets the same fate. “I don’t like you very much; in fact, _hate_ comes to mind.”

“Shame,” Valeria sneers. Bringing the knife to his shoulder, she runs into the starburst scar from his military days. “If only I cared. Who is this man that is very busy and important enough to send _you_?”

Napoleon shrugs as much as he’s able. “Top secret, I’m afraid.”

“Is it now?” she wonders aloud. Valeria motions the knife towards his blemished shoulder. “Interesting _cicatriz_. Where did you pick that up?”

“Oh, that.” Napoleon glances at the scar and smiles when he looks up at Valeria. “Boyhood adventures.”

Valeria gives him a skeptical look. “You played with guns as a boy.”

“I had a troubled upbringing,” he replies. The blade begins to dig into his skin, kissing it with the type of sharpness that will soon become a fiery burst of pain. “I’m serious! Valeria, why must you think I’m lying?”

She rolls her eyes, groaning. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Pain blossoms as the fine point penetrates through the top layer of skin; never fading, only intensifying as Valeria pushes the blade in inch by inch. Through clenched teeth, a groan escapes Napoleon’s lips. “Possibly,” he says hoarsely. “Bit heavy handed, Valeria.” She applies more pressure, much to his displeasure. “Perhaps you can lay off— _FUCK—_ a bit?”

“Harder?” she taunts. “I can do harder.”

He opens his mouth to retort but finds himself screaming. It wrenches out of Napoleon’s throat until its all he hears. That terrible, awful sound of agony twisting at his voice. While the blade slashes through skin and muscle, the rest of him shatters, the pain overwhelming him as dark spots appear in his vision. Sagging in his bonds, Napoleon smells his own blood before feeling it soak through his shirt. As the tangy, copper scent hits his nostrils, he thinks it’s a small mercy that Valeria has finally stopped pushing the knife in further. With a sigh, he drops his chin to his chest and forces himself to take several deep breaths. It would be his rotten luck to break down in tears or worse _faint_.

“Are you done playing games, Mr. Solo?” Valeria inquires.

Blinking, Napoleon lifts his head. “Not yet,” he says with a smile.

She twists, shredding more tissues as the blade moves. Napoleon lets out another scream, digging his fingernails into the wood of the chair until his voice gives out and there’s an explosion. Dust particles rain down as the building lurches under concussion waves. Valeria cries out as she falls to the ground, letting go of the knife as Napoleon topples over in the opposite direction. He lands on the dirty floor with a thud and pained grunt. “Ah, my friend is here,” he announces over another blast.

Illya comes seconds later, guns blazing and temper setting the room on fire. He takes out three of Valeria’s thugs before coming upon her. “Valeria Busigó,” he states, words coming out of his mouth like a curse, “you are under arrest.”

Napoleon doesn’t hear the rest of their exchange; a swarm of U.N.C.L.E agents funnel in and remove Valeria from the room. Leave it to Illya to come through at the last possible moment, while he’s being stabbed by a mad woman. “Peril,” he hisses as he lies on the floor, still bound with blood flowing freely from his shoulder, “a bit of help?”

“Cowboy!” Illya exclaims, rushing to Napoleon’s side. His blue eyes widen at the sight of him, taking in the knife protruding from Napoleon’s shoulder as well as the other wounds. If Napoleon were in the position to bet, he’d say that Illya— _Illya_ , of all people—looks on the concerned side of worried. He pulls out a Swiss army knife and begins cutting Napoleon’s binds. “This is not good.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of _course_ it’s not!” The rope falls away from his wrists, causing them to shift against the chair and sends a surge of pain to Napoleon’s injured shoulder. “Please tell me there are medics waiting for us.”

“ _Da_ , the medics are outside,” Illya tells him. He purses his lips as he tries to figure out what to do.

“That doesn’t help me _at all_ ,” Napoleon grouses. “Lend me a hand would you?”

Illya’s frowns at the demand and shakes his head in reply. “It is a bad idea, Cowboy. I will call for them,” he says as he reaches for his pocket.

“For fuck’s sake!” Napoleon yells. It sends a new jolt of agony through his body. Gritting his teeth, he offers the other man his hand from his uninjured side and waggles his fingers. “Help. Me. Up.”

“I do not like this,” Illya announces as he gingerly assists Napoleon to his feet.

It’s there that black spots appear in his vision while Napoleon sways, something he chalks up to being tied to a chair for hours. He steadies himself by clutching onto Illya’s forearm and waiting for it to pass. Blinking deliberating, he clears his throat as Illya questioningly intones, “Cowboy?”

“M’fine,” he insists, giving Illya’s arm a squeeze. “Shame that she had to ruin my suit.”

Illya scoffs but never takes his hand off Napoleon as he slowly leads him from the room. “Vain like peacock,” he mutters.

“Stubborn like a mule,” Napoleon hisses back, earning a scowl from Illya. “What? I thought this was a game.” He grins at the other man and watches as his expression deepens. “You’ve got that scowl down quite well, Peril. Has anyone ever…”

He can’t describe the overwhelming sensation that takes control of his body; it’s far greater than dizziness and more draining than fatigue. Napoleon crashes into Illya where he finds warm, solid mass keeping him from falling to the floor.

“Cowboy!” Illya shouts, alarmed. Panicked, even.

Napoleon blinks up at him and grins as he stares into the depths of Illya’s blue eyes, thinking he would be happy to drown in them. Or freeze. “You’re pretty,” he slurs.

It’s Illya’s turn to blink, his worry turning to confusion. “Pretty?”

“Like a painting. No…marble statue,” Napoleon rambles. “That’s what I thought when I first saw you, Peril. Perfec…”

He tilts into darkness, saving himself from further embarrassment and having to be _carried to safety_ by Illya like a damsel in distress.

Napoleon’s certain he’ll never hear the end of it.

 

* * *

 

He comes to in a hospital bed and drugs in his system approximately twelve hours later.

Napoleon is actually pretty thankful for the latter since he feels as if his head has been detached from the rest of his body. He decides during his climb to consciousness that the medical use of drugs is a blessing; the very best blessing besides a perfectly tailored suit. He blinks once, twice, three times until the hospital room goes from a blurry mess to something discernible. It’s nice to see that the medical staff have cleaned him up on top of mending his wounds. The gown dressed him in, on the other hand, is flimsy and a terrible shade of blue; Napoleon immediately hates it and wants more blankets. Napoleon finds Gaby occupying the seat next to his bed with a magazine that she flips through. “Best sight I’ve woken up to,” Napoleon mumbles, delighted by the company.

“Welcome back,” Gaby says without looking up. “Do you think I’m a Spring or a Summer?” She holds up a ridiculous article about what colors a woman should dress in to make herself more attractive. It’s a trick question because Gaby is far too sensible to go along with such things.

Napoleon stares at her, contemplating the inquiry. “More of an Autumn,” he replies. “Though you look ravishing in anything you wear, Ms. Teller.”

“Good point,” she tells him as she stands up. Setting the magazine down on the bedside tray, Gaby walks over to him and smiles. “I would call you an idiot, but it’s getting tiring Mr. Solo,” she teases while ruffling his hair. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugs tiredly. “Like I’ve been stabbed repeated, but the drugs are certainly helping.”

“I would hope so,” Gaby laughs. She changes her expression to a serious one. “You’re looking at three weeks of medical leave because of the blood loss, not to mention the bruises you managed to give yourself when you _fainted—_ ”

Napoleon bristles. “I _did not_ faint!”

“—into Illya’s arms,” she continues on as if Gaby hadn’t heard him. “The stitches will come out in a fortnight, but be mindful of the ones _inside_ of you.”

“What’s the extra week for?” Napoleon asks.

Gaby smiles. “Waverly’s apologies for bad intel.”

“Ah. Good old Waverly,” he sighs. Napoleon glances around the room, noting the absence of a certain grumpy Russian Adonis. “Where’s Peril?”

“Sent him back to the hotel to rest,” Gaby answers, sounding unimpressed as she continues petting Napoleon’s hair. “Which I _doubt_ he’ll do. It was either that or the doctors sedating him since it was better than him terrorizing them about when you were going to come around.”

Napoleon raises a brow. “He was doing what?” His eyes widen at the thought of Illya stomping around the hospital, demanding that doctors tell him exactly what they were doing, when they were doing it, and how it was being done. It’s hard to imagine because aside from their bedroom activities, Illya doesn’t seem to care all that much for Napoleon’s person.

“Terrorizing the medical staff,” Gaby repeats very matter-of-factly. “You didn’t wake up immediately after surgery and he got anxious.”

“Or combative,” Napoleon breathes. “Blood loss isn’t exactly the easiest thing to bounce back from. How long have I been here anyway?”

Gaby nods in agreement. “Twelve hours,” she says. “And that’s what _I_ tried to tell him, but you know Illya. He’s stubborn unlike someone _else_  I know.”

“I have no idea _who_ you are talking about,” Napoleon huffs, fidgeting in the bed. He shifts, jarring his mending shoulder and winces. “Ow.”

She shoots him a frown. “ _Solo_ ,” Gaby warns.

“I hate it when you say my name like that,” he complains.

“You’ll hate tearing your stitches even more,” she fires back. Gaby crosses her arms over her chest and gives him that motherly look; the one reserved for when she was worried about him, but won’t admit it. “Don’t make all of Illya’s efforts to rescue you go to waste.”

Napoleon nods. “I’ll be good, _mommy dearest_.” This earns a flick to the center of his forehead.

And it stings like a mother fucker, too.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon is, predictably, released from the hospital the following day and into Gaby’s care.

Napoleon is also, predictably, exhausted and goes straight to his hotel bed, where he makes himself comfortable before passing out for a few hours before they’re supposed to head back to New York City. He sleeps on the taxi ride to the airport, with his head on Gaby’s shoulder once the fasten seat belts sign has been turned off, and all the way back to his apartment while Illya asks Gaby if this is normal.

Which it _is_ , by the way. Napoleon thinks it’s a bit unreasonable for Illya to be nitpicking his post-release activities when it wasn’t all that long ago when Illya had two bullet wounds in his back. True that he only visited Illya while he was unconscious, but certainly he must have also been exhausted beyond all reason?

Then again, it’s Illya. A man whose strength is ridiculous, awe-inspiring, and godlike.

The same man who hasn’t bothered to find a place of his own and has become Napoleon’s semi-unwanted roommate. Illya who buys them groceries and makes them dinner on the evenings Napoleon doesn’t. The very same Illya who clucks over Napoleon as he strips out of his clothes and takes some Vicodin for his shoulder, and then eases himself into bed.

“I should call a doctor,” Illya tells him.

His brows are furrowed when Napoleon opens his eyes. “You _should_ leave me alone and let me sleep,” he grumbles. The frown doesn’t lessen or disappear from Illya’s face. “Peril, I’m fine. _Really._ Just tired is all.”

“I do not like this, Cowboy.”

Napoleon makes a face. “Believe it or not, neither do I,” he says as he fluffs a pillow and buries his face in it. He doesn’t bother listening to whatever retort is on Illya’s tongue and falls into four blissful hours of dreamless sleep. Probably some of the best sleep Napoleon’s had in a while; most of the time Illya infiltrates his subconscious because Napoleon’s subconscious is a bitch.

Those moments where Illya is stretched taut against dark sheets while Napoleon has his wicked way with him. Where he’s actually able to profess his growing feelings into Illya’s skin without fear of being rebuked and hears them said back while fingers pet his hair. It’s not exactly pleasant to wake up yearning for something he isn’t even sure could be his. Napoleon stumbles out of bed, following the glorious smell of food, and finds Illya in the kitchen with his back to him. Napoleon watches as Illya stands in front of the stove, looking completely focused on what’s inside of a sauté pan.

“That’s used to sauté,” Napoleon bristles once he realizes that there’s meat sizzling.

“I _am_ using it to sauté,” Illya fires back without turning around. Instead, he reaches for pepper and shakes it into the pan.

Napoleon doubts that, but his doubts are not as important as the smells in the air. “Is that steak?”

“ _Da_ ,” the other man answers. “You need to regain your strength, Cowboy.”

“Why Peril,” Napoleon says with a bright smile, “you _do_ care about me!”

Illya whirls around, wide-eyed and color rising on his cheeks. His mouth opens and closes before he goes back to the cooking food on the stove.

Napoleon chuckles as he approaches the island and leans against it to watch. “Peril,” Napoleon stage whispers, to which Illya grunts. “I was joking. You have jokes in Russia, don’t you?”

“What do you think?” he snaps. Illya turns off the stove and begins hastily plating their food.

“ _Nyet_ ,” Napoleon replies.

This is met with a blue-eyed glare. “Your dinner,” Illya tells him as he slides the plate across the island.

He expects to dine with Illya in awkward silence because that’s what they normally do. If Napoleon has learned anything about his new roommate, it’s that he’s not one for small talk.

“What is difference between a smart Russian and unicorn?” Illya asks.

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “No idea, Peril. Perhaps you’ll tell me?”

“Nothing,” he says with a grin. “They’re both fictional.”

A moment in which Napoleon stares at Illya like he has two heads before laughter bubbles up from the depths of his throat and rattles out into the open. All while Illya looks on with a smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

The first week of their vacation is fairly low-key.

Napoleon rests since he isn’t all that stupid and knows the fastest way to bounce back is to take it easy. Illya decides to continue treating him as if he’s made of glass, though his culinary skills are surprisingly good. True, it’s a bit disconcerting to find an overprotective Russian looming over him as Napoleon takes a nap, but he supposes it’s Illya’s way of showing that he does, in fact, care for Napoleon’s well-being.

It’s the second week when Illya comes into Napoleon’s bedroom late at night, naked and lovely as he walks across the floor. The shift of weight on the mattress is what wakes Napoleon, blinking his eyes open to find Illya crawling over to him. Healing be damned; just watching the other man willingly joins him in bed is enough to make his cock harden and strain inside his pajama bottoms.

From the moment Illya’s jaw is within the distance of his fingers, Napoleon reaches for it and traces over the hard line. Stubble prickles at his skin as their mouths find each other and Illya’s hands are pulling down the blankets, followed by Napoleon’s clothing. He knows he’s already ready for him because they’ve done this enough times that it’s become second nature.

Illya’s slick hole finds his cock when he straddles Napoleon’s lap. Rather than impaling himself, he stares at the stitched up wound on Napoleon’s shoulder; it resembles a macabre zipper holding together still healing skin. Illya touches it first, gently running his fingertips over the black thread and pressing his lips to it.

Napoleon closes his eyes as the sensation sinks into him. “Peril,” he breathes as his hand curls around the back of Illya’s neck. The skin is still tender to the touch, but as Illya mouths the area, it only builds upon Napoleon’s lust.

He coaxes their bodies together, breaching Illya’s with his cock and slowly filling him. Napoleon hears his breath hitching when he strikes his prostate and thinks that this thing between them is still a terrible idea. Probably one of the worst he’s ever partaken in. They should have stopped after the first time.

The first night, the first week, the first month. Even the first time they quietly fucked inside of their safe house in Zermatt while Gaby slept in the next room.

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers, brokenly.

They look at each other in the darkness of Napoleon’s bedroom and it’s then he decides he doesn’t want this—whatever it is—to stop. With his hands on Illya’s hips, he rocks them against his own and shoves himself into that glorious heat over and over.

“I want you here in the morning,” Napoleon rasps into Illya’s ear. “Because I’m going to fuck you again, Peril. Do you understand?”

Illya nods feverishly, eyes squeezed tightly as he rides Napoleon’s cock. “ _Da_. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Good boy,” Napoleon gasps as Illya flutters around his cock, earning a moan in reply. He buries his face into the hollow of his lover’s neck. “Fuck, Peril…”

Lips press against his own and he gladly accepts them. Kissing Illya is unlike any other experience he’s had when kissing another person; it’s hungry, unexpected, and only makes Napoleon want him more. He shoves his tongue into the hot cavern of his lover’s mouth, tasting him and finding new wants to hear Illya groan.

Their bodies move together faster as Napoleon buries his hands into Illya’s blond hair while calloused palms cup either side of his face. He hears that hitched whimper for when Illya is getting close; when he doesn’t want to break away to cry aloud.

It’s fine because he doesn’t want to either. Napoleon sucks his lover’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down; hard enough to send a jolt through the other man, but not to break the skin. Illya groans, hands slipping and finding solid ground against the headboard. Their mouths break apart, filling the bedroom with moans and curses. Sex is an amazing thing: it can turn even the most stubborn of men such as Mr. Kuryakin into a fucked out, dizzy puddle of arousal. Honestly, the very image of him with his glassy eyes, flushed skin, and kiss-swollen mouth is the prettiest picture. Something that Napoleon commits to memory.

“ _Cowboy_ ,” Illya whimpers frantically. He’s close now, seconds away from finding his release and coating Napoleon’s skin with it. “Touch me. _Pozhaluysta_!”

He doesn’t last long after Napoleon takes him in hand and pushes him over the edge. Spunk splatters between their bodies as Illya moans in Russian. Napoleon only understands some of it, though most of it seems to do with how good Napoleon feels inside of him, to keep fucking Illya until he can’t take it. All the filthy begging Napoleon needs to hear. He joins Illya with a strangled cry and empties himself deep into his body, holding onto him a bit tighter than normal.

When Napoleon opens his eyes in the morning to find Illya sleeping next to him with a brawny arm slung over his stomach, he realizes that this is still the _stupidest_ thing he’s ever done.

He might as well enjoy it.


	5. Chapter 5

Vulnerability doesn’t come easily to Napoleon, especially since he’s made it a habit to keep everyone, save for Gaby, at arm’s length.

It’s a behavior whose beginning most therapist would have a field day with; a behavior that altered the course of Napoleon’s life and sent him to join the military. In turn, he eventually found his way into the CIA and, finally, U.N.C.L.E. When Napoleon was a fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old, still gangly as he grew from a boy to a man, just starting his final year at NYU, he was more carefree and much better behaved. While life was an open book, he toed the line at mischief. He also went to great lengths to make sure he never did anything that would upset his parents.

The very idea of seeing their faces tight with disappointment or anger made Napoleon cringe. So he strove to do well by them; excelling in academics and lacrosse, balancing internships with schoolwork, and mostly staying out of trouble.

Napoleon never doubted that his parents were proud. They told him all of the time: when he ventured home to Long Island for Sunday dinners with his weekly laundry load in tow, during phone calls, and typed in emails.

He had been fortunate enough to have an idyllic childhood where he grew up wanting for nothing in an upper-middle-class neighborhood with freshly mowed lawns. His mother, a lover of history and art if his first name wasn’t a subtle hint, took him into the city to tour the museums while his father brought him to Yankees games under the hot summer sun. Napoleon was loved and safe, never worrying that it would come to an end.

Life has a strange way of teaching one a lesson, and Napoleon was no exception. In a span of moments, his very existence shattered and turned the comfortable world he knew into cinders and dust, just like the planes that crashed into his parents’ workplace.

For all of the horrors he’s experienced, nothing stands out more than that balmy September morning as he stood inside of the student union while televisions blared with the news and fellow classmates frantically tried to get in touch with their loved ones. In the middle of the pandemonium, Napoleon stood at the fringes of it, unable to lift his eyes from his cell phone screen.

He had just hung up with his father, who was always calm in the midst of chaos. “I’m going to find your mother,” he promised Napoleon, as her office was several floors down. “And we’ll call you as soon as we’re safe, okay?”

“Dad, I love you guys,” he recalls telling his father. “Please be careful.”

The call disconnected suddenly as screams from the other people filled the room. He didn’t have to look to know that the building was coming down or he would never hear his parent’s voices again. That he would be burying empty caskets because the rescue crews would never find their bodies amongst the wreckage of steel and concrete.

That his life as it stood was drastically different from what Napoleon had planned.

Nearly sixteen years have passed and it still gives him nightmares, especially around the anniversary. There are times Napoleon wakes up with a scream on his tongue and his skin drenched in a cold sweat. During the worst of it, he’ll have tears drying on his cheeks and panic rushing his veins.

He never lets anyone see it, the vulnerability hiding underneath expensive clothes and a charming grin. Gaby knows what happened to his parents—she’s his handler, after all—but is smart enough not to bring it up after first and only time Napoleon mentioned it.

As he watches Illya reading on the couch when he should be keeping an eye on the stove, Napoleon thinks to himself that if he truly _had to be_ vulnerable, he could do it for him.

He would do anything for him.

 

* * *

 

In the weeks that follow, Napoleon’s shoulder heals into a thin scar and life goes on.

They stop a human trafficking ring in Budapest, thwart a mad man’s attempt to finish what Richmond Valentine started in Kiruna, and escort a scholar seeking asylum from Yemen to the United States. Despite the doubts Napoleon might have had when Waverly announced that Illya would be joining him and Gaby, it’s become clear that the three of them make a great team.

During moments of downtime, Napoleon finds himself in Illya’s company. It’s then he notices a shift in his professional and personal relationship with the other man, however slight these differences are.

They still have sex, but it’s not the same as it was before. It’s not to say that it’s become bad or they’re growing bored of one another; something between them has taken root starting from the morning Napoleon woke up with him. Finding Illya still in his bed, sleep soft and an arm curled protectively around Napoleon’s middle is still the strangest image he’s seen thus far. Just thinking about it causes his heart to expand within the confines of his chest. Whatever it is, it’s unfamiliar feeling; like an ache that never goes away.

While most people find Napoleon to be arrogant, they can’t say that he isn’t one for details. He has an uncanny ability to notice nuances that are often overlooked and finding their place, whether it be a mission or deducing if a sketch done by Rubens is a well-done forgery. It’s what makes him brilliant in both of his chosen careers. He never lets it go to his head because, if anything, Napoleon knows what damage true arrogance could cause him.

As he lies in bed with Illya’s blond hair caught between his fingers, inspecting each strand as the sun sets over Lisbon while Illya dozes, Napoleon realizes what’s happening. Panic surges in his chest, welling up from its depths and placing his lungs in a vise. His breathing hitches, stuttering as it passes through his nose and mouth in a shaky exhale. He’s falling in love; he’s been falling ever since he first saw the other man standing in front of him. 

 _I’m in love with you_ , Napoleon thinks as he spares a glance at Illya’s sleeping face pressed onto his stomach. He tilts his head, eyes roaming over the curve of perfectly formed cheekbones and parted lips Napoleon kissed not that long ago. His fingers ghost over each feature until they stop at Illya’s mouth, where he traces its shape.

Illya grunts, smacking his lips together but does not wake. When they aren’t on a mission, Napoleon’s found that the other man is a heavy sleeper. It’s kind of endearing to see such a formidable being completely knocked out and hard to rouse, even if it means Napoleon may get punched in the jaw for his efforts.

“Shit,” Napoleon whispers as his thumb comes to rest by Illya’s chin. He swallows, never taking his eyes off of his lover. “ _Shit_.”

“Cowboy,” Illya slurs suddenly, batting his hand away from his face. Lifting his head off Napoleon’s stomach, he blinks up at him. “What’s wrong?”

He forces a smile. “Nothing,” he lies, voice filled with false cheer. “Why do you ask, Peril?”

Illya stares at him, dubiously. “You are a terrible liar,” he states. “Terrible liars make terrible spies.”

“At least they don’t make terrible lovers,” Napoleon counters as he hooks his fingers under Illya’s chin and brings him closer. He presses his lips to the stubble-covered skin, finding every point that makes the other man shiver while he slowly reaches Illya’s mouth. “And I can say without boasting that I am _not_ a terrible lover. Wouldn’t you agree, Peril?”

Illya snorts, despite the yearning in his body language. “Your ego,” he intones, “barely fits into this room.”

“Do you think we have enough time for another go before Gaby comes back?” Napoleon asks, huskily, as he pecks a gentle line over his lover’s lips. He drifts towards Illya’s neck, running the sharp edges of his teeth over the sensitive skin. The saltiness of dried sweat finds itself on his tongue, tasting of sex and of Illya. “Do you think I could make you cum again, Peril?”

He finds himself with Illya’s knees pressed into his sides and feet hooked together at the base of his spine as Napoleon buries himself deep within Illya’s body. It’s one of his favorite ways to fuck him, holding themselves so closely together that nothing can come between them.

Except for Napoleon’s self-sabotage.

As Illya’s teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder and releases a muffled cry when his orgasm hits, Napoleon silently vows not to mess this up.

He’ll do everything in his power not to.

 

* * *

 

So there’s the thing that Napoleon quickly deduces in trying not to screw up is that while he tries his hardest, it puts a lot of pressure on one’s self.

And there are mitigating factors that will try to screw it up for him because the universe, if anything, is a giant bitch who doesn’t allow people to have nice things. People, mainly being Napoleon, who is trying so, so, _so_ hard not to fuck this up.

On honeypot missions, he doesn’t go all the way if he can avoid it because he can get what they need without losing his clothes. Most of the time it works and he slips into the night, back to the designated safe house where Gaby and Illya are waiting for him.

Damn his ego for thinking that it would erase the jealousy and hurt from Illya’s face. As soon as he sees the upside down tug of Illya’s mouth and how he refuses to meet his gaze, Napoleon feels as if he’s kicked a puppy.

A giant, grumpy Russian puppy.

The days that follow are a bit awkward and consist of Illya avoiding any contact with Napoleon, unless it’s necessary. Illya’s rejection stings more than Napoleon cares to admit, but he keeps trying and promising himself that he won’t screw this up.

 

* * *

 

They burn through missions at record speed because, aside from Napoleon’s personal quarrel with his own feelings, he, Gaby, and Illya are an effective team.

Tokyo is a bit of a shit show that ends in a high speed chase, followed by a car wreck that kills their foe while Gaby narrowly avoids it. He ends up with more bruises than he can count while Illya dislocates his knee and Gaby receives a laceration that requires stitches on her forehead, but they’re alive. It’s the only thing that matters when Napoleon checks in on both of them, offering to arrange an appointment in the hotel spa for Gaby and sneaking into Illya’s room to massage all his aches away with hands and mouth.

He eats Illya out in the quiet of the hotel room with long legs draped over his shoulders while he works his lover open. Napoleon has always been a fan of rimming, whether it be giving or receiving, and is a fan of rimming Illya. He reacts in the best way; vocally and bodily in a symphony of wanton sounds while he trembles. Silently delighting in the way Illya practically liquefies when he wiggles a finger alongside his tongue, Napoleon teases out his lover’s first orgasm of the evening while thinking of all the way he could make the other man call his name.

Not _Cowboy_ , though he’ll gladly admit that it does have a certain ring to it, but _Napoleon_. Anything to hear it spoken in Illya’s accented voice, whether it be in conversation or during sex. Even more so since they apparently have an unspoken agreement in which both of them refuse to say each other’s given names.

_Ever._

He tries not to dwell on it, especially when he’s finally gotten Illya all loose and sloppy and wet with his saliva and lubricant once spit isn’t enough. Napoleon proceeds to fuck every last bit of tension out of them, until their semen stains the sheets and they’re too wrung out to move. They fall asleep like that, in a tangle of sweaty limbs with Illya’s head pillowed between Napoleon’s shoulder blades.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in months.

Helsinki is far less exciting than Tokyo, almost to the point of boredom. They’re sequestered in a two-bedroom flat on the outskirts of the city, one of which he has to share with Illya. It’s no hardship, though they keep up appearances so Gaby doesn’t become cottoned to the fact that he and Illya are…whatever they are.

There isn’t much to do in terms of passing time, so Napoleon begins asking personal questions over a game of chess. “Where did you manage to pick up that wristwatch?” he asks as he moves his rook piece.

“My mother gave it to me,” Illya explains as he studies the board and makes his counter move. Running his fingers over the stubble on his chin, he smiles in thoughtfulness. “She said it was my _deda’s_ and he would want me to keep it safe. It was a few days before… _they_ came for her and my father.”

Napoleon doesn’t need to ask for clarification of who _they_ are; it’s the FSB. The people who tore Illya away from his family and set him down a path similar to his own. “Do you have any other mementos?”

“ _Nyet_. Our belongings went to auction,” he says. “I had to hide it in my shoes when I was taken to orphanage.”

He tries to imagine Illya as a child, but is only able conjure the image of a frightened boy with just the clothes on his back and an old man’s wristwatch hidden in his shoes. A lump forms in his throat, sticking as Napoleon swallows it down. “I have a brooch that belonged to my mother,” he intones. “One of those miniatures carved from ivory - like they used to do years ago. There isn’t a memory that I have of her without it, except for the day she and my father died.”

Unexpected tears sting his eyes and he looks away to blink. Napoleon wipes them quickly, avoiding the embarrassment and hot slide of them falling down his cheeks. Sniffling, he forces a laugh. “Maybe she knew,” Napoleon concludes. “Maybe she knew she was going to die that morning and didn’t wear it because she wanted me to have it.”

Illya nods thoughtfully. In the amber glow of the room, he studies Napoleon for a while. “How did they die?”

“It’s not in my file?” he comments, surprised. Napoleon pegged Waverly as the more isn’t enough sort of chap.

The Russian shrugs. “I did not need to sneak into Waverly’s cabinet,” Illya says. There is an expectation of Illya being offended by his comment, as he’s been offended by less. “Besides, why read it when I can ask you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon stares at him as his jaw falls slack, opening his mouth in surprise. It’s not often he’s surprised, though Illya has managed to do it more than once. As Napoleon gathers his thoughts, he loses to Illya at chess and waits to speak until his king is laid down.

“Plane crash,” he answers. Napoleon watches as Illya crooks a brow and shakes his head. “Not exactly; there was a plane and a crash. It went into the building they worked in.” He clears his throat. “A lot of people died that day.”

Illya’s eyes widen at the revelation before they soften into sympathy. He knows; everyone does in the world does, which is a small relief. Napoleon would hate having to explain it. “How old were you?”

“Twenty-one. I was just starting my senior year at NYU.”

The other man presses his lips together. He begins to put the chess set away, stopping after a few intolerable minutes of silence. He reaches out to place his hand on Napoleon’s kneecap. “Your parents would have been proud of you, Cowboy,” Illya says softly.

“Art thief aside?” Napoleon questions with a wan grin.

“ _Da_ , art thief aside,” Illya tells him, giving his knee a squeeze and letting go to continue his task.

Napoleon watches him, his hands mostly; made to kill, to rip apart and yet they handle something like a worn chess set so gently. Illya’s a paradox, he decides later on when Illya is sleeping in the bed next to his.

One that he desperately doesn’t want to screw up.

 

* * *

 

Their good luck runs out when an assignment in Vienna goes tits up; Illya is caught by the enemy and subsequently tortured.

Part of Napoleon thanks God that it’s not him for once, but then he realizes they have _Illya_. His Illya and suddenly he wants to rip them apart limb by limb. The moment that Gaby turns to him, eyes glistening with worry, he _knows_. They have _his_ Illya and Napoleon is going kill to every one of them if they so leave a blond hair out of place.

Then he remembers that Illya isn’t _his_ , per say. He has his body, his pleasure, and a camaraderie at the best of times if he’s being honest, but Illya doesn’t belong to him. But God, Napoleon wants him to. He wants Illya so badly he can taste it; a strange flavor of icy winters, vodka straight of the bottle, and pine trees.

It’s no longer about sex; Napoleon is stupidly head over heels in love with him, and he’ll be damned if some idiot who thinks they’re the reincarnation of a World War II era dictator takes Illya away.

The barest thread of luck is on their side; by chance and general competition, Napoleon and Illya have taken it upon themselves to see who can bug each other’s belongings the most. What originally started out as a way to annoy one another has turned into a safeguard against being killed. Tiny devices hidden in buttons, cufflinks, soles of shoes, belt buckles, basically where ever they put them—they’re in everyone’s things, including Gaby’s. Thankfully, she hasn’t caught on to her team members’ proclivities, because Napoleon knows she would have a field day.

They track him down easily enough, driving to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city in a stolen Opel Combo. Before Gaby’s put the vehicle in park and gotten her cell phone out to find out what their back-up’s ETA is, Napoleon is running through the dark with his guns blazing.

Napoleon is a man of few scruples and morals, that much is true; however, this lot who call themselves Freikorps der Aufstand have taken the one person who means more to him than any earthly possession. Fuck the strategy and plans he and Gaby spoke of on the tense drive over; Napoleon is going to burn this warehouse to the ground until he has Illya back. If it means everyone inside will die, so be it.

Hell, if it means _his_ death, fuck it. He’d prefer it not be the case, but whatever gets the job done.

So he runs; he runs straight into the warehouse with his feet slapping against pavement and wet leaves. The monster Napoleon hides under designer suits and fancy accessories crawls out of the ether to lead a one-man charge into hell. Upon seeing the first Freikorps member, he leaves a neat bullet hole in the center of their forehead and goes onto the next.

He plows his way through the building, uncaring if another person’s blood splatters on his skin or stains his clothing. Each gunshot, sound of bones breaking under his strength, scream cut short by the death brings Napoleon one step closer to Illya.

The Freikorps der Aufstand haven’t heavily fortified the building with their people, a stupid move on their part, but then again…

Napoleon hears back-up surrounding the warehouse, sealing all possible escape routes as he tears the place apart to find Illya. Man, woman—it doesn’t matter to him; Napoleon shoots them anyways. He truly understands what it means to see red. It’s not blood coating his vision, but pure, unadulterated rage. It blinds him to common sense, turning his narrow world of a dingy warehouse into a landscape of destruction.

Sandro Botticelli’s _Divine Comedy_ comes to mind. Even Pollock’s _The Flame_ , though Napoleon isn’t much for the abstract expressionist movement. Rage and all it’s dark glory pulses through his veins as his brain chants _Illya, Illya, Illya_.

Setting the world on fire has a whole new meaning to Napoleon; from the moment he finds Illya with his head covered in a black cloth as his captors dunk him under water, Napoleon becomes an inferno. He shoots both of them without hesitation. As suddenly as it came, it vanishes and Napoleon is able to see clearly again. He watches Illya crumpling to the ground, unable to catch himself since his hands are bound behind his back. Illya’s body hits concrete without so much as a sound from him.

“Peril!” Napoleon shouts, rushing to Illya’s aid. He rips the soaked cloth from his head to find that the golden color of his skin has been drained, leaving the other man unnaturally pale where there isn’t bruising. To find Illya so lifeless under his hands is truly one of the most horrific things Napoleon has experienced.

Grasping either side of Illya’s face, Napoleon gives him a shake. “Peril! Wake up,” he demands, shaking him again and watching his head loll on his shoulders. He presses his ear against Illya’s chest and is absolutely terrified when he hears water gurgling with each breath.

Napoleon glances at the handcuffs binding Illya’s wrists too tightly, leaving them bloodied and bruised. Rolling him onto his side, it takes a matter of seconds for him to pick the lock before he’s pushing the other man on his back and tilting his chin up, beginning mouth-to-mouth. On the third try Illya gags, color returning to his face as he launches himself onto his side. Water and the remnants of his last meal come up, spilling onto the floor. Napoleon watches as Illya curls into a ball and dry heaves until he’s passing sticky dribbles of bile.

“Peril,” Napoleon intones, lifting the other man’s head onto his lap. He removes his jacket and lies it over Illya, covering his abused upper body.

Illya whimpers and the sound stabs Napoleon directly in the gut. Unsettling doesn’t begin to describe seeing such a Goliath of a man—a man whose bare hands have ripped off the trunk lid of a car—so helpless.

“Shh,” he whispers, carding his fingers through damp blond hair as he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. He needs to get Gaby and medical in here now. “It’s okay; you’re safe, Peril. They’re gone…they can’t hurt you anymore.”

The Russian flinches, then blinks. As his eyelids open, tears of exhaustion escape and run down his cheeks before disappearing over the curves of his face. “Cowboy?” he rasps, voice shot and weak.

“At your service, Peril,” Napoleon tells him as Gaby picks up. “Darling, we need medical assistance back here; third room to the left down the last corridor.”

Illya groans, squeezing his eyes shut and dry heaves again. “Solo,” he moans. “ _Ya ne khochu byt’ zdes’_.”

 _I don’t want to be here_. Napoleon nods, even though Illya can’t see him. “Do you think you can walk?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” he answers, wheezing miserably. “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” Napoleon assures as he puts his phone away. “You’re stuck with me, remember? Once you save a man’s life at sea, we’re bound to be together for eternity.”

He hears Illya scoffing at him, impressive for someone who was just vomiting up water several minutes ago. “You are terrible spy,” Illya grumbles.

“You’re just jealous of my natural abilities,” Napoleon counters. He notices Illya has closed his eyes, leading him to wonder if he’s lost consciousness. “Peril?”

“Yes, Cowboy.”

Napoleon brushes Illya’s limp hair from his startling blue eyes and grins. It’s either that or showing just how shot his nerves are. Words he wants to say push at his tongue, trying to force their way out, but even someone as inept at relationships as Napoleon knows that _this_ isn’t the time.

So he says something else: “You’re never allowed to get kidnapped again. That’s _my_ job.”

It’s not Shakespeare, but it will do in a crunch.

“Your job?” Illya questions, managing an eye roll despite how weak he is. “Your job. Crazy American; does not look before he leaps.” He drops his head into Napoleon’s lap and grunts. “ _Pomeshannyy_!”

He laughs. “A lunatic that’s saved your life _twice_ now. Peril, you ought to thank me.”

“Ought to kill you…” Illya coughs, then hisses as he clutching his bruised abdomen. “…with my bare hands.”

Remarkably, some things never change; Napoleon can’t say it displeases him. “You look like you’re going to need a while, Peril,” he remarks. “Should I clear time out of my schedule?”

Illya just groans in reply.

 

* * *

 

Illya spends several days in the hospital, most of which he’s hooked up to oxygen as a precautionary measure and is terribly displeased by this.

The doctors would probably take him more seriously if he wasn’t coughing and wheezing from the very moment he tries to remove the nasal cannula. They go over some of potential side effects—pneumonia, pleurisy, secondary drowning—which seems to cool Illya’s annoyance. It’s all very entertaining from Napoleon’s standpoint as he observes the entire scene unfold from the plastic hospital seat he’s sitting in. To see Illya acting like a petulant child is positively _delightful_. Even when Gaby claps him upside his head.

As soon as the doctors deem Illya fit enough for travel, Waverly whisks all of them off to Como, Italy, where they are given lavish lodgings at the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni.

“Waverly will give us our next assignment in a week or so,” Gaby assures while she lounges next to Napoleon in the hotel spa, sipping on a blood orange mimosa. “Besides, did _you_ really want to stay in Vienna after what happened to Illya?”

Napoleon lifts a cucumber slice off his eye. “Not particularly,” he admits with a sigh. He sets the vegetable down while thinking of Illya, who is currently napping in their suite.

The only reason why he knows this is because Napoleon went to check in on him before being dragged to the spa by Gaby.

Not surprisingly, Illya was fast asleep and slumped over a half-read book laid over his lap. Napoleon stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him, and went to the bed, where he placed the book (Pushkin this time) on the bedside table and then eased Illya down to a more comfortable position before pulling the comforter over his shoulders. He smiled down at him as he ran his fingers through Illya’s messy hair, pushing strands away from his forehead.

His ministrations resulted in a happy sigh from Illya and Napoleon’s heart stirring inside his chest. He wanted to slip into bed with him and pull Illya close, holding him while he slept.

But Illya isn’t his to hold.

“I’ve never cared much for Vienna,” Napoleon mentions distractedly as he dwells on his lover. “Dreary city, lousy food.”

“How picky you are,” Gaby teases.

He sniffs. “Well, at least it was a step up from our trip to Rome,” Napoleon says, dourly. “I _hate_ Rome.”

“Ugh,” Gaby agrees, clearly remembering the Vinciguerra affair as well. He can even _hear_ her wrinkling her nose in distaste. “ _Rome_.”

Later, when they are the only people using a saltwater wading pool, Gaby decides to do what she does second best to being a handler. She drops one hell of a bomb on Napoleon and it makes him glad that there’s no one else to witness his near meltdown. “So when are you going to tell Illya that you’re in love with him?”

Boom goes the dynamite. Napoleon ends up being so startled that he flails in the water before falling under the surface. There, it gets into his nostrils, eyes, and mouth, burning as he comes back up, coughing and gagging while Gaby serenely keeps on floating. “Warn _me_ when _you_ do that!” he croaks as he thumps his chest.

“At least you’re not denying it,” Gaby remarks as she stands. Wading over to Napoleon, Gaby flicks her fingers in the water, sending a few droplets his way. “So?”

He glares at her. “So what? How do _you_ even know?”

As expected, Gaby raises a brow and stares. “Are _you_ actually asking me this?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Napoleon huffs. He thinks again. “No…well. _Maybe_.”

Gaby rolls her eyes as she gracefully tips over onto her back again. “ _Ausweglos_ ,” she mutters under her breath.

“So what if I am?” he fires back, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout. “It’s difficult to share my feelings, I’ll have you know! Most people would be surprised that I even have them!”

Her snickering doesn’t help, but Napoleon can’t bring it upon himself to reprimand Gaby. “Your ineptitude to form meaningful relationships, outside of me, is quite endearing, Solo,” she tells him with a smile. “In fact, it’s what I like most about you.”

“I’m starting to wonder if I’m rubbing off on you, darling,” he comments, worriedly.

“You pretend not to care about those around your pretty face, but in reality, you care an awful lot,” Gaby says. She floats by him, poking Napoleon in the middle. “It’s why you dove in after Illya when you could have let him drown.”

He presses his lips together, picturing Illya’s body drifting in a churning sea. “I didn’t.”

“And I asked you why. Do you remember what you told me?”

Napoleon exhales, flaring his nostrils and nods. “You’re going to remind me, aren’t you?”

The way her lips curl into a devious smile is all the confirmation he needs. “Somehow, it just didn’t seem like the right thing to do; that’s what you said,” Gaby declares. “I can’t complain; I like Illya and it makes things easier now that there’s three of us.”

“It does come in handy, doesn’t it?” Napoleon quietly comments, smirking.

“Yes,” she agrees as she walks towards the edge of the pool and pulls herself out of it. Gaby makes herself comfortable. “Now the question is, what are _you_ going to do about it? I already know that you two are fucking, so don’t bother playing coy.”

He can feel the heat rising under his skin as his face turns bright pink. “How… _how_ did you know that?”

“I heard you in Lisbon,” Gaby replies with a shrug. “Honestly, I never expected Illya to be _that_ loud. He’s always seemed like the quiet type.”

Napoleon wishes he could melt into the pool and disappear; discussing sex has never been an issue for him. Quite the opposite, really. He has no problem talking about it with Gaby, but it’s sex with Illya and it’s _private_. Lisbon, the city in which Napoleon was certain he was in love. Where he and Illya forwent sightseeing to take advantage of having their rented townhouse to themselves.

“Wow,” Gaby declares. Her brown eyes are round like a pair of saucers as she stares at Napoleon. “You _really_ do love him!”

He winces. “Fuck,” he groans. Napoleon’s fist hits the water. “Fuck!”

“Napoleon,” he hears Gaby sigh. When he looks at her, she has a sympathetic smile on her face. “Come here.”

He goes because Napoleon knows that he’s out of his element. One night stands, weekend flings, mission-relevant romances; he’s good at those. When it comes to developing a real relationship, well…he needs Gaby’s guidance. Napoleon hops up on the side of the pool and makes himself comfortable. “Are you going to tell me that I’m an idiot?” 

“We’re all idiots in love,” Gaby counters as she snakes her arm around his. “What has you so afraid of telling him?”

Napoleon drops his cheek onto the top of her head. “Being vulnerable, I suppose. Giving him the power to hurt me. To _really_ hurt me.”

“I don’t think Illya would do that. At least not knowingly.”

“Knowingly or unknowingly, it’s not something I’d like to find out,” Napoleon states. “Besides, what if I ruin everything? It’ll make things awkward.”

Gaby gives his arm a friendly squeeze. “But what if you _do_ find out and it’s worth it?”

Napoleon hasn’t allowed himself to dwell on that possibility. It’s his pragmatic way of keeping his head on his shoulders and not getting his heart broken. He and Illya have certainly developed an arrangement that toes the line of a romantic relationship, but it doesn’t mean anything. Napoleon knows well enough that he can get what he wants just by saying the right words, doing the right thing, and so on.

Acting is one of the grandest illusions and not even he is immune. When he’s in bed with Illya, he keeps reminding himself that it’s just sex. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You’re overthinking it,” Gaby pipes in. She has that look about her when she’s reading his mind, which is entirely possible. They’ve been friends and colleagues long enough to gauge each other almost immediately.

He harrumphs. “I know I am,” Napoleon admits. “Feelings are scary.”

“They’re terrible,” Gaby agrees.

Napoleon snorts. “The absolute worst! I don’t even know why we have them.” He gives Gaby a sideways glance, practically hearing her groaning _Solo_ with the annoyed expression on her face. “What?”

“ _Unmöglich_ ,” she says, lightly punching his arm. “You’re impossible, Napoleon Solo!”

 _Well_ , he thinks as he rubs where her fist hit him, _she’s not wrong_.

 

* * *

 

Several days after a doctor deems Illya ready for active duty, the three of them are sent to Rome because Napoleon and Gaby are convinced that someone at U.N.C.L.E _hates_ them.

Rome, of all places! They are dreading the prospect of returning to the very city that tried to kill them both, much to Illya’s complete confusion. “I did not understand,” he says while watching his colleagues groaning in unison as they review the file for the umpteenth time to make sure this isn’t a bad dream. “What is wrong with Rome? It is a city of cultural and history; these are good things.”

“Under other circumstances, I’d agree with you,” Napoleon replies as he pours Gaby and himself generous glasses of scotch. He hands one off to her. “But you weren’t subjected to the treatment we were.”

Gaby nods in agreement as she sips her drink. “Psychotic couples with plans for a nuclear holocaust,” she mumbles.

“ _Your_ uncle, Rudi, and his electric chair,” Napoleon adds as he sits down next to her. “I’ll never look at lightbulbs the same way again.”

“Don’t remind me,” Gaby complains. “At least he burned himself to a crisp.”

Napoleon shrugs. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, clinking glasses with Gaby before they finish their scotch. “Another?”

“Yes, please,” she says sweetly as she holds out her glass for more, despite Illya staring at them like they’ve both grown two heads each. Gaby tilts her head. “Something the matter?”

Illya raises a brow and shakes his head, muttering quietly to himself as he turns his attention back to Waverly’s file.

“At least we won’t be tailing someone like the Vinciguerras,” Gaby concludes with a sigh. She glances over at the Russian. “It says that Dr. Alexey Volkov was a part of the FSB’s top research team, specializing in weaponizing their agents. Have you heard of him?”

Illya sniffs, unimpressed. “Da, but only by reputation. My superiors mentioned him frequently; said I was perfect specimen for trial runs. I declined and reported back to my MI6 contact.” He sets the file down, frowning. “I knew others who participated. They either went mad or died.” 

“That’s a lovely bedtime story, Peril,” Napoleon grouses. “A doctor with a fondness for human experimentation. I wonder if he’s a fan of Mary Shelley?” Gaby slaps him across the chest. “ _Ow_! Your rings _hurt_!” he whines while rubbing his pectoral muscle.

Illya rolls his eyes. “Should have slapped Cowboy harder,” he suggests.

“Not feeling the love here,” Napoleon snaps at him.

“Not my problem,” Illya replies. He turns back to Gaby while Napoleon makes a disgusted sound. “How do you propose approaching this mission?”

She sips her cocktail. “Well, you will stay out of sight. I don’t want Volkov alerting the FSB of your whereabouts, especially when we’re tailing their own. From what I’ve read, he has a fondness for museums. Perhaps Napoleon can intercept him there.”

“He will know if Cowboy plants a bug,” Illya tells her. “Volkov may be a doctor, but he is also FSB.”

“And apparently camera-shy,” Napoleon comments as he flips through the file on his iPad.

Every single images of Volkov is blurry to the point of being unrecognizable or shot from far away. The doctor is slim and tall, a combination that seemingly extends his body even more. He does not tower over people like Illya does, though it is close. Volkov seems to favor high collars and full brimmed hats, obscuring his facial features from the camera lense.

One thing is evident - he is by far one of the strangest marks the team has ever had.

“Very much so,” Gaby agrees, peering over Napoleon’s shoulder. She looks to Illya. “Do you know anything about that?”

Illya seems uncertain about this as well. “Perhaps he is paranoid like most FSB agent. Dr. Volkov did come from the ashes of KGB and their regime is instilled in him.” He shrugs. “Not the strangest man I’ve seen.”

“Or haven’t seen,” Napoleon mumbles. “Are we even sure this man is him?”

“I’ll call Waverly to verify that the man in these photographs and the man in this dossier are the same person,” Gaby tells him. She chuckles. “It would be _our_ luck to find out we’re being had.”

Napoleon frowns at her. “Don’t say that,” he warns, sinking lower on the couch. “The Powers That Be might hear you!”

 

* * *

 

Waverly, being the practical man he is, orders them to gather more intel on their mark before following through with apprehending him.

“It would be rather embarrassing if we nabbed the wrong person, don’t you agree?” he says over video conference, smiling weakly before taking a sip of his tea. “And it would put us in an awkward position with the FSB, seeing how our newest agent was one of theirs.”

Illya clears his throat. “And MI6’s,” he sternly adds, frowning into the laptop’s camera.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Kuryakin. You know how possessive the FSB can be when it comes to their agents,” Waverly replies. His eyes darken for his next comment. “And how hell-bent they are on retribution against those who they view wronged them.”

Napoleon feels Illya shifting uncomfortably in the seat next to him. “ _Da_ ,” he says quietly. “I know.”

What’s left unsaid speaks louder than any of the words that follow. It hangs over them while Gaby and Waverly come up with a plan of attack, which Napoleon and Illya half-heartedly agree upon.

The entire time Napoleon steals glances at his lover, whose features darken as he dwells upon Waverly’s statement. He’s been in this game long enough to know that their boss is correct and the FSB will use anything to justify striking out at double agent, especially one who was so valued. It worries him to think that this mission could potentially put Illya in danger.

A funny thing for Napoleon to think, since all of their missions put their lives in danger.

For all the jokes he makes about Illya’s Russian roots, he knows how deadly it could be if Volkov alerted the FSB of their former agent’s whereabouts within Rome. Napoleon doesn’t want to think about the possibilities.

It’s decided that Napoleon and Gaby will scope out the good doctor while Illya compiles what intel he can from the safety of their hotel suite.

Napoleon can tell it doesn’t sit well with the other man, who only nods in agreement and is quick to leave the room. He gets it. Illya is an action man; he loves being in the thick of it and breathing in the scent of blood, sweat, and gunpowder.

That’s probably why Illya comes to find him once Gaby’s gone out to see the sights, wound up tight and biting Napoleon’s lips when their mouths collide. His teeth draw blood, only fueling their lust as they tear away clothing while stumbling towards the nearest flat surface they can find.

Illya is impatient and doesn’t allow Napoleon to fully prep him, resulting in a broken howl when he buries his cock into the confines of the other man’s ass. He watches as Illya arches into him, muscles churning under flushed and sweaty skin while others contract and release. Napoleon goes to great lengths not to injure him, but it seems Illya doesn’t want gentle.

“Ruin me, Cowboy!” he demands, pushing himself onto Napoleon. There’s a flash of anger in his irises, turning them to the color of steel. “ _Now_!”

He manhandles Illya in reply by pinning his arms behind his back and pressing the side of his face into the carpet. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Napoleon snarls, bucking his hips forward and dislodging a sharp cry. He does it again, delighted by Illya’s reaction. “You take what I give you. _Pontmain_?”

Illya’s groan rumbles through both their bodies. He nods desperately, fervently. He wants Napoleon to dominate him and needs it as much as breathing.

Napoleon is only too happy to oblige him.

He fucks Illya like time is running out and this will be the last thing they ever do. Napoleon carefully presses bruises into the delicate skin of his lover’s wrists and hips while his mouth sucks them onto the cords of his neck. He skims Illya’s prostate with every thrust, but only barely; it’s enough to send frissons of pleasure up and down his spine, keeping him on the edge of climax.

Illya is all incoherent sounds and heavy breathing; his oversensitive body trembles under Napoleon - the carpet and lack of attention to his cock are not doing him any favors. Napoleon images how little relief the floor is providing him with each thrust, only allowing the smallest amount of pressure.

Enough to tease, but not to satisfy.

He pictures Illya’s dick, red from arousal and the carpet, leaking sticky trails of precum all over the fibers and his skin. If Napoleon wasn’t enjoying their current position he’d flip Illya over and blow him, letting the flares and thickness of him make his jaw sore and his throat ache.

God, he loves Illya. So much, too much.

The words press at his tongue, forming consonants and vowels those only reasons for existence is to be screamed at the top of Napoleon’s lungs. He wants to say them so badly, but feelings and words are dangerous in their line of work; deadly complications.

Napoleon knows this, though he doesn’t care. It had started long before Illya. When he befriended Gaby and let her into the places Napoleon kept heavily guarded, with the Kingsman knights, and even with Waverly.

The clench of Illya’s orgasm, that greedy tightness milking his length, brings Napoleon out of his thoughts. He could watch that strong body moving under him for the rest of his days, listen to his moans, and taste him. He presses his mouth to Illya’s shoulder blade, grazing his teeth over the warm, salty skin. Perhaps it’s the ripple of pleasure going from Illya’s body to his own or nature taking its course, but Napoleon finds himself close to his own release. Napoleon’s hands leave his lover’s wrists, moving towards his hips where he buries his fingers to use his advantage.

“ _Peril_ ,” he chokes out, burying himself deep inside of the other man. A moan slips through as Napoleon closes his eyes. “Fuck you feel so good!”

Napoleon digs his fingernails in, certainly leaving half-moon shapes on his lover’s hips. He draws his bottom lip with his teeth, grunting as his climax begins its final push through his body. As he begins spilling himself inside of Illya, his eyes fly open.

Orgasm makes Napoleon dopey; it always has. When Illya’s involved, it multiples and he becomes an idiot. The things he says cannot be censored or stopped because he simply lacks the concentration or fortitude to stop himself. So when he screams “Illya!” rather than Peril or other endearments he whispers to lovers during sex, he can’t help it.

It brings a tidal wave of sensation and leaves Napoleon breathless as he pumps out the last of his climax before pulling out to slump onto the carpet.

They lie in a stunned silence side-by-side, punctuated by both of them regaining their breath. The sting of carpet burn radiates from their bodies as neither one moves.

“You said my name,” Illya states after a while. There is awe in his tone, as well as a hint of distrust.

Napoleon knows well enough not to act glib, especially in front of Illya. It will only get him a bruised body part and an outrageous hotel bill.

So Napoleon does the single most ridiculous, stupidest thing he can think of. The one thing that will blow everything between him and Illya to shit.

“I’m in love with you,” he says as he stares at the ornate ceiling.

He continues staring as Illya grabs his things and leaves, slamming the door in his wake.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon harbors no illusions about the absolute dumpster fire he’s created by confessing his feelings to Illya.

He realizes that risks were involved; bodily or emotionally, they’re inconsequential because he’s Napoleon Solo. The man who leaps before he looks, who dives headlong into a fight, who charms his way out of _everything_. A man who has no scruples or attachments, much less has  _feelings_ like every other human being walking the planet.

At least, that’s what the world thinks. For those who know Napoleon best which isn’t many, they see the humility and compassion under his charm. His utter lack of personal safety to keep the people he cares about out of harm’s way, which ends up with him in the hospital more times than not. Napoleon’s act of playing the cad is a mask and one he wears well.

When Gaby returns to the suite later that evening, she finds Napoleon sitting on the edge of his bed with a half-drunken glass of scotch in his hand. It’s probably his hunched posture or the somber expression written all over his face that gives him away, but she knows. She knows from the moment she stands in the doorway, removing her coat. Gaby sighs heavily and makes her way over to him, removing her heels in the process.

The bed shifts when she sits next to him, causing the scotch to slush around the glass. “How much have you had?” Gaby asks.

“Not enough,” Napoleon tells her. He sniffles, refusing to lift his eyes from his hands. They itch to punch something solid, something that might break them. “It will never be enough.”

Her fingers touch his nape, then his scalp where Gaby cards them through his hair. “I will beg to differ when you’re throwing it up in the toilet.”

“Now _that_ will never happen,” he grouses, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a drink. “I have the constitution of a Scot.”

“Except your mother was French-Canadian and your father was English and Basque,” Gaby reminds him.

Napoleon turns his head, glaring at her. “You know far too much about me for my own comfort, Ms. Teller.”

“It’s my job,” she replies, sweetly. “So, why are we drinking?”

“ _We_ aren’t drinking,” Napoleon tells her before draining the rest of the glass. “ _I_ am drowning my sorrows. I have no idea what you’re doing.”

Gaby punches him in the bicep. “So over-dramatic,” she says as Napoleon goes to fill his empty glass. “What is it, Solo? Illya didn’t want to sleep with you this evening?”

“If only,” he laughs, sounding a bit too shrill to his own ears. He downs the contents, wincing at the scotch’s burn in his throat. “I took your advice,” Napoleon finally says, “and told _Illya_ that I loved him. You know what he did?” He turns to face Gaby, who appears concerned. “He left. Without a word, just left. Though he _did_ slam the door on his way out.”

She opens her mouth to say something but decides against it. Napoleon reasons that Gaby is probably too stunned to find that he actually took her advice and that she was wrong about Illya. _He_ was wrong about Illya.

“Good luck finding him,” Napoleon says bitterly. “Shouldn’t be hard to find an angry Russian giant stalking around Rome.” He sets his glass down with the intention of refilling it, though his sadness outweighs his wanting to be blackout drunk.

Instead, he places his palms on the table, leaning against it as his head hangs between his shoulders. Napoleon shuts his eyes as they begin to burn, not wanting Gaby to see it.

He’s not dumb enough to think that all romances end in the manner of Austen or whatever fairytale creation Hollywood has dreamed up. Napoleon very well knew the risk of telling Illya of his feelings, and now he's feeling its sting like he's trapped in a Brontë novel.

God, he hates love and the idea of it.

Napoleon should have never let his feelings affect his judgment. All of the things he thought he had with Illya is only an illusion, a desperate fantasy of his own creation. He tells himself he read too much into everything the other man did, that people like him shouldn’t be entangled with things like a relationship.

As he’s lamenting his predicament within his own mind, Napoleon doesn’t hear Gaby come up behind him until she’s wrapping her arms around his middle. It startles him to feel the press of another, but he soon relaxes into it. Gaby has a way of making Napoleon feel calm, and this situation is no different from any other. He goes to clasp her hand with his as he sighs.

“He’s an idiot,” Gaby intones. “And he’ll realize he’s an idiot.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll make him wish you let him drown,” she states before kissing his nape.

He doesn’t doubt Gaby’s other talents and ends up chuckling. “Your devotion to me is quite endearing, Ms. Teller,” Napoleon tells her as he squeezes her hand.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon makes himself scarce, as he can leave the hotel suite while Illya is confined to it.

As much as he detests Rome, he admits that there is plenty for him to do. Napoleon wanders through piazzas and down little-known side streets leading to some of the most delicious dinings he’s ever had. He finds himself at the usual tourist attractions, listening to the guide as they go over the history of the Colosseum, Arch of Constantine, the Pantheon; he corrects the poor chap in his head because it’s clear he doesn’t seem to value accurate history telling as much as Napoleon.

Walking amongst ancient ruins, he recites the stories his parents told him when he was a boy. The rise and fall of the Roman Empire and all of the civilizations in between. Tales of Romulus and Remus, emperors and empresses, artists and thieves. They give way to medieval, renaissance and baroque, and neoclassic architecture before the fascists tried their hand at building.

So he stays out until it’s late at night and his body aches. When he’s certain Illya will have retired to his room and doesn’t have to see his stupidly handsome face, Napoleon returns.

That way, he doesn’t have to engage in any conversation with him. Or punch him.

On second thought, it’s probably a good thing that they haven’t seen other, not since the day Illya walked out on Napoleon.

It suits him just fine since he’s Napoleon Solo and he can withstand anything.

When he isn’t taking in the typical sights Napoleon finds himself in strobe light illuminated clubs, pressed up against other bodies as music thumps through his veins. The type of club where he can trip and fall into a blowjob if that’s what he desires.

Places where a suit isn’t in the dress code and he’s wearing his favorite pair of ass-hugging jeans and a shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.

For the first few hours, he watches the sea of grinding patrons from the bar while he sips on a cocktail. Clubs are always filled with spectacle and the ones in Rome are no different. There are people making out on the dance floor, in semi-secluded alcoves, and in the line for the toilets; sex is everywhere, and yet, Napoleon is only fledging interest because the person he wants is across the city.

He eventually settles on a man because he’s Illya’s exact opposite. Where Illya is light, this man is tall (though not as tall as the Russian), dark, and handsome with the face of someone who will provide a perfect distraction for a person who needs distracting. The kind of man that won’t ask for his phone number and will most likely blow Napoleon in the alleyway before they venture off to a more secluded place.

The stranger makes his way over to Napoleon and grins upon coming closer. Where he lacks dimples there is a charming cleft in his chin, surrounded by the perfect amount of stubble. Napoleon is reminded of the boy next door, the high school quarterback, or homecoming king if they have such things in Italy.

“Excuse me,” the man yells in Italian in an effort to be heard over the pulse of club music. He tilts his head, still smiling. “Do you know where I can find a good looking gentleman to drink with?”

Napoleon chuckles; the line is utter crap, but at least his new friend knows it. “In fact,” he replies while waving down a bartender, “it so happens I do.”

They engage in the usual small talk ad flirtatious banter over a drink, inching closer to together as time wears on. It’s a dance everyone plays—they find someone who interests them and acts coy until one of them cuts the cord and takes a risk.

In his case it’s the Italian man; he leans into Napoleon’s sphere, silently gauging his reaction before kissing him. It’s a bit too dry, too tinged with alcohol, but it will do. Napoleon curls his hand around the stranger’s nape, drawing him in for more. He eases the stranger’s mouth open with his tongue, flicking between his lips until he can slide right in.

The man groans at the intrusion. His fingers hook themselves into the belt loops of Napoleon’s trousers and pull him closer until their pelvises are pressed against each other. Napoleon feels the hardening length of his new friend under a pair of tight jeans as the other man’s hands go to his waist.

It’s not the familiar press of Illya, nor the way he tastes or kisses. The hands creeping up Napoleon’s shirt aren’t calloused by rough missions and handling guns, but soft and manicured. There’s no bite to how the stranger holds onto him or licks his way into Napoleon’s mouth.

He doesn’t feel the absolute desperation of wanting their bare skin brushing against each other or to have the other man’s cock in his mouth.

The Napoleon Solo _before_ Illya Kuryakin came charging into his life would have been turning his charm to eleven and taking the man to bed, no qualms about it. He would have fucked him until he was laid out on the bed, exhausted and dizzy with pleasure, then gloat about to Gaby once he returned to the hotel the following morning.

All Napoleon feels now is the sick seed of despair in his stomach as the man grinds their crotches together. He wants an infuriatingly tall Russian with blond hair and blue eyes who reads dull books and plays chess when they have downtime. He wants Illya and this man, as attractive as he is, is not him. Napoleon pulls away while clearing his throat. Laying a hand on his friend’s chest, he clumsily excuses himself under the guise of freshening up in the toilets before handing a bartender far too many euros and leaving the club.

Outside he inhales the crisp night air, allowing Napoleon to collect himself before heading back to the hotel. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand while the other flags down a taxi.

Maybe it was too soon, he wonders on the way back. Maybe the hurt is too overwhelming. Maybe he needs to take it slow before jumping back into the game. Or perhaps it’s that he needs the lush curves of a woman to help him forget what it’s like to have a man pressed into his body.

He goes out the following night because Napoleon is a glutton for punishment. He’s on the prowl for the actual opposite of Illya in every way and dead set on finding it.

It so happens that he does find it in the form of a woman at a different club. She’s lovely and feminine with green doe eyes and dark hair. There’s a spark about her that reminds Napoleon of Gaby, though it doesn’t stop him from accepting her kiss. She tastes of lemon drop shots and giggles into his mouth as the crush of people push them off the dance floor.

She doesn’t try to bite him or manhandle Napoleon towards the nearest dark corner; this woman is too soft for his desires, too sweet to be ruined.

Napoleon can’t bring himself to go any further; the very idea of it makes him sick. He abruptly leaves without explanation while her salvia is still wet on his lips. He walks back to the hotel this time, mind whirling at the thought of being so consumed by another person.

When he walks into the suite and catches just a glimpse of Illya as he’s shutting the door to his room, Napoleon realizes that neither men nor women will ease his melancholy.

It’s Illya, only him. Always him.

 

* * *

 

Instead of going out until all hours, Napoleon keeps himself occupied during the day.

He follows Volkov around, seeking where this man spends his time. It’s clear his mark is no stranger to the city as he stays away from the usual tourist attractions. Napoleon finds himself deep in the heart of Rome, places where the man is heartily greeted by the people who own the establishments. Volkov meets with a variety of contacts, some of whom Napoleon recognizes from U.N.C.L.E and CIA dossiers, over food and drink. It seems he’s especially fond of pasta with heavy cream sauces and wine, some of which end up on his suit jacket.

Napoleon watches from afar, usually across the street at a cafe with a newspaper concealing his face. He catches several glimpses of the doctor, noting the perpetual sour expression on his slender face. Volkov is unremarkable; the perfect spy. Perhaps he had been handsome once when he was younger, he certainly has the cheekbones for it.

Now he is a severe looking man who uses humans as his test subjects. If that isn’t insanity, Napoleon doesn’t know what is.

The sad thing is he imagines this is how Illya could have turned out if he hadn’t untangled himself from the FSB’s web. It stings something fierce when Napoleon thinks of him, despite not having seen Illya for several days.

His presence lingers even as they purposely run on opposite schedules to avoid each other. Napoleon stays out all day and comes back to the suite when he’s exhausted. He keeps to his room within the suite and only steps foot outside it when he hears Illya’s door click shut.

It’s not an ideal way to exist, but there isn’t much he can do. This mission could compromise Illya’s safety and despite their current stalemate, Napoleon will be damned if something happens to him.

And by God, he misses him!

He misses everything about him even though they share a wall. Napoleon misses Illya’s humming, the way he plays chess, how their bodies fit together so perfect, the rumble of his voice…just _everything_.

For a man who has never felt more than attraction or respect for another human being, Napoleon finds that love is awful. He feels downright pathetic when his heart stirs at the sound of Illya speaking to Gaby because, quite frankly, Napoleon should just barge in and demand to have a word with the stubborn bastard.

Except he knows well enough that cornering Illya won’t do either of them any good.

 

* * *

 

Gaby is out tailing Volkov when Napoleon finds himself in the same space as Illya.

He walks into the main room of the suite as he’s finishing with the buttons on his shirt and hears a newspaper rustle. _Oh, that’s just Peril,_ Napoleon thinks until the rest of his mind catches up and he does a double take. His reaction is mirrored in Illya, whose face resembles a deer in headlights.

They stand there, staring at each other for several long, painful moments. It’s funny as since it’s only inches that come between them, though it’s turned into a chasm. Napoleon wants to say something - anything to break the uncomfortable silence - but finds for the first time in his life that words fail him.

Illya throws the paper down on the coffee table and rises to his feet. “ _Ya idu_ ,” he announces angrily.

Napoleon can’t stop himself as he jumps into Illya’s path and places a hand on his chest. “You’re staying right _here_. Waverly doesn’t want you…”

“Waverly isn’t here,” Illya snarls, “but _you_ are.” He presses forward, only for Napoleon to shove him back. Illya’s nostrils widen as his anger grows. “Let me go, _Cowboy_!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Napoleon tells him. He narrows his stare when Illya bats his hands away. “ _Peril_ …”

Illya pushes him, side-stepping around Napoleon’s ungraceful recovery and heads to the door. Without another word, he leaves the hotel suite while the other man follows.

“Peril, I’m warning you,” Napoleon hisses as they take the service staircase, voices echoing off the cream colored walls. “I _will_ inform Waverly of this!”

“Then inform him,” Illya challenges over his shoulder.

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Are you aware,” he begins to say, “that you are the most stubborn and infuriating individual I’ve ever met? _And_ I’ve met a lot of people, Peril!”

“I do not care,” the other man bites back as he pushes the service door open and walks out onto the street with Napoleon on his heels. “Go away!”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you blow this mission because you’re acting like a pussy!”

“Russians are not pussies!” Illya growls over his shoulder. Clenching his fist, he stomps down the cobblestone sidewalk and onto the main road.  
  
Napoleon comes at his right side. “Could have fooled me,” he snaps. “You certainly avoid confrontation like one!”

“Russians,” Illya shouts, turning around. Upon noticing that he’s attracted the attention of a group of tourists, his cheeks turn bright pink with embarrassment as he presses his lips together. “Do _not_ avoid confrontation.”

Napoleon laughs in his face. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard! Tell me, Peril, then what do you call _this_ in Russia, hrm?” He frowns before turning on his heel and going in the opposite direction. “Hypocrite!”

While Illya is a great spy, probably one of the best Napoleon has ever worked with, he is as discreet as a bull in a china shop when he’s angry. “I am _not_  hypocrite!” he growls as he grabs Napoleon’s shoulder and spins him around. “You are acting like child!”

“You were the one who walked out on me!” Napoleon fires back, affronted. He pokes Illya in the center of his chest. “I told you I loved you and _you_ left!” He doesn’t care that he’s managed to silence Illya, despite the furious expression on his face. The muscles of the other man’s throat work, trying to come up with a response only to find none. It just makes Napoleon angrier. “I haven’t loved anyone or anything the way I love you, Illya! And if you don’t feel the same way—”

Illya shakes his head. “ _Nyet_ ,” he replies. “That is not it.”

“Then what is it?” Napoleon demands, hands gesturing wildly.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Peril!” Napoleon groans, exasperated as he stares up at the sky. He levels his gaze and hates that Illya is standing there, looking so beautiful. “Don’t do this. Don’t tell me that I wouldn’t understand. Is it because of what the FSB taught you? That loving another man is bad and you will be punished? I hate to tell you, but we’re in 2017, Peril!”

Illya bristles at this. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is!”

“You do not know me, Cowboy. You do not understand what I am capable of,” Illya quietly says, his voice sounding pained.

Napoleon grabs him by the biceps and shakes him. “Then tell me! Allow me to understand! _Please_.”

Illya’s eyes flicker to his, holding Napoleon’s stare. Those incredibly blue irises that can resemble the warmest pools and the iciest depths. And he loves him; all Napoleon wants to do is close the distance between them just to feel Illya’s mouth pressed into his. “Illya,” he whispers, begs. “Please let me in.”

“Cowboy,” the other man breathes, closing his eyes as he drifts closer. It sounds like a prayer upon his lips. Illya gazes at him a moment later, eyes widening in terror. “ _Cowboy_!”

It happens so quickly that Napoleon barely registers the sharp end of a dart embedded in his arm until he hits the ground and right there. He plucks it out and discards it, slowly realizing that Illya is covering him, pushing Napoleon away.

“Cowboy, run!” Illya shouts.

Stupidly, neither of them are armed, having left the suite in such a hurry during their argument, but there’s no time for regrets. Scrambling to their feet, they run only to be blocked by two black sedans.

“Other way!” Illya barks, grabbing Napoleon’s wrist.

Instead of following, Napoleon crashes into Illya’s body. He barely manages a groan when another shot rings out and there’s a dart sticking out of the exposed skin of Illya’s neck. Napoleon watches as the other man removes it with a curse and hoists him to his feet.

“We need to go,” Illya tells him. He half-carries Napoleon towards another escape route just to be stopped again.

Napoleon’s vision swims and darkens around the edges. “Peril, I think…”

He thinks something - a sedative, most likely - is in those darts, but he can’t tell Illya that because his mouth won’t cooperate. Napoleon slumps into Illya’s side, feeling the vibration of the other man’s grunt as he’s hit with a second dart.

Napoleon collapses to the ground, slipping from Illya’s strong grasp until he’s lying on the cool cobblestones. He passes out before the third shot, but not before he hears Illya calling his name.

“Napoleon!” he screams in the chaos. “ _Ne trogayte yego_! Napoleon!”

At least when he loses consciousness, Napoleon does it with a smile on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a brief moment where Napoleon wakes to the rumbling and jostling of a moving vehicle.

His mind sluggishly determines that he’s on the floor of said vehicle, dumped unceremoniously on his back with his limbs unbound. His captors have gone to very little lengths to keep Napoleon contained; the sedative he was dosed with must be potent and they’re betting on him remaining unconscious.

Lying on the floor, Napoleon flips through the events that brought him here. It’s a tiring exercise, but he needs to come up with something before he passes out again. Illya had been with him as they took their argument into the busy streets of Rome. They shouted and bickered until there seemed to be a breakthrough.

Then chaos descended upon them.

 _Illya,_ Napoleon thinks in muted panic. He tries to move, grunting from the fatigue weighing down his body as he brushes up against an arm.

Another person.

Napoleon turns to see Illya’s unconscious face next to his own, sprawled on his stomach and limbs akimbo. His lip is split, already bruising around the bottom edge where there isn’t dried blood. Moving closer, Napoleon is relieved to hear the steady rhythm of Illya’s breathing.

It’s a small comfort in the precarious situation they find themselves in, not to be alone when one has been kidnapped.

A grin tugs at Napoleon’s mouth as he spends the last of his remaining strength watching Illya slumber on, committing it to memory and falling into the abyss.

 

* * *

 

The next time Napoleon wakes, it’s the plague of nausea attacking his stomach.

Saliva pools his mouth as Napoleon blinks his eyes open to a beautiful fresco depicting the rape of Persephone by Hades on the ceiling above. He’s certain the detail is exquisite and it’s something Napoleon would take the time to appreciate it wasn’t for the sudden urge to expel his last meal in the most violent manner. Swallowing, he pulls himself upright and quickly realizes how much of a horrible idea that is as he leaps off the bed towards an open door to a bathroom.

Barely making it to the toilet, Napoleon drops to his knees and clutches the sides as he begins heaving. He vomits until there’s only bile and spit coming up and his stomach aches from it. Napoleon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while the other flushes the toilet. He groans at the bitter taste in his mouth and the lingering ache of discomfort.

“Hell,” Napoleon mumbles before spitting into the basin. With shaky limbs, he pulls himself up to wash his mouth out in the sink.

It’s when he reaches for the cold water faucet that Napoleon realizes that his accommodations are not exactly the hellholes he’s grown accustomed to. In fact, it’s the complete opposite—elegant, luxurious, _comfortable_ ; from the crystal handles on the sink and the Italian marble floors to the frescoes painted on the ceilings.

Now that the cobwebs are clearing from his head, Napoleon realizes that even _the bed_  rivals ones in five-star hotels.

He peeks into the bedroom to confirm this and grows more confused by the second. “What the hell is going on?” Napoleon wonders aloud as he steps back into the bathroom, where he spies another open door out of his peripheral.

It’s strange to be able to roam free while technically a captive, but Napoleon does so because no one is stopping him. The room is another bedroom, nearly identical to the one he was left in save for a fresco of angels and fluffy clouds peering down from heaven.

And on the bed is an unconscious Illya with his arm folded over his stomach.

“Peril!” Napoleon shouts as he rushes to the other man’s side and grasps him by the shoulders before checking for a pulse.

Under his fingertips is the steady thumping of Illya’s blood; Napoleon lets out a sharp cry of relief. He cups Illya’s face between his hands and taps a cheek. “Peril,” he says, sternly. “Illya, it’s me. Open your eyes.” Napoleon slaps him again, wincing as the other man’s head lolls on his shoulders.

“Jesus, what did they give you?” Napoleon mutters in awe as he realizes that there is absolutely no possible way for him to single-handedly rescue them with Illya being incapacitated. He’s a giant when awake and damn near impossible to budge when asleep. But this, _this_ , is out of his realm of quick thinking.

Carding his fingers through his hair, Napoleon breathes out in frustration. Leaving Illya behind is out of the question; he simply won’t do it. So it means only one thing…

“Peril, come on!” Napoleon demands, giving Illya a good, hard shake. “Time to open those eyes; some of us are getting impatient. And when I say impatient, I mean not wanting to find out what these people have in store for us. Also, Gaby is going to have our hides! _Especially_ yours!”

Illya, beautiful, maddening, stubborn Illya, doesn’t even flinch; his head goes back to its original resting place on the pillow while he does his best impression of Sleeping Beauty. Napoleon finds it goddamn infuriating and fights the urge to punch him in the face.

“You,” he hisses accusingly, “are the _worst_ spy!”

Not even that rouses Illya or his ire. Napoleon huffs as he slides off the bed and heads back to the bathroom to find anything to help him in his quest. All that’s there is the usual bathroom fixtures—a cup, towels, toiletries.

After staring at them while contemplating which one will work for his purposes, Napoleon grabs a washcloth and runs it under cool water. He wrings it out and goes to Illya’s side, finding that not much has changed since he left. Napoleon presses the cloth to Illya’s forehead, patting it against the warm skin and continuing down the rest of his face.

When he touches the damp fabric to Illya’s jaw, it earns a tired groan and a thrill of hope in Napoleon’s stomach. “Peril?” he intones, leaning closer as he repeats the action. With his other hand, he brushes Illya’s hair back while watching the Russian’s face contort. “Peril, it’s me. Open your eyes.”

Illya grunts, moving his head from one side of the pillow to the other. “ _Yeshche neskol’ko minut_ ,” he whispers dreamily.

“No, no,” Napoleon tells him. “We don’t have a few more minutes!”

“ _Mama, gde papa_?” Illya mumbles. “ _My ne mozhem uyti bez nego_.”

Napoleon stares at him, silently translating the words in his head. _Mama, where is papa? We can’t leave without him._ He drops the cloth on the bed beside them, sighing. “Oh, Illya,” he says sadly as he cups Illya’s cheek and runs his thumb over its curve.

Illya won’t remember this, though Napoleon will. While the sedative made him sick to his stomach, it’s brought long-buried memories to the forefront of Illya’s mind.  

“You’re okay, Peril. I’m here with you,” he assures.

The door opens; Napoleon turns his head to inspect their captors. It’s a man wearing a suit and a stern expression as he comes upon the scene in front of him. Behind the stranger are two armed guards, neither of which look like the friendly sort in the best of circumstances.

“Volkov will like to see you now,” the man announces in accented English.

Napoleon hardens his face. “Volkov will have to wait,” he snarls. “I’m a bit busy if you can’t tell.”

The man says something too low for Napoleon to understand and juts his head in the direction of the bed. The guards come forward, one of them cracking their knuckles as they approach Napoleon.

Instinct tells him that if he fights, it will not end well for him or Illya. When one of the other men grabs Napoleon by the bicep he willingly is pulled off the bed, grumbling all the while. “You ought to learn about hospitality,” he mutters bitterly.

The man ignores him; he motions towards the outside of the room and steps aside as a team of people come inside. They beeline to Illya, crowding around him until Napoleon can no longer see him.

“Hey!” he bellows as he lunges forward. The guards try to hold him in place, much to his frustration. “What are you doing to him? Get your hands off me!”

“What we do to him is none of your concern, Mr. Solo,” the man tells him.

Napoleon glares at him. “Like hell!” he manages to retort before he feels the air rushing from his lungs. It realizes he’s been elbowed in the stomach several moments later when he’s doubled over and wheezing. He hates this bit—the part where the captor roughs him up before taking him to the head bad guy in charge.

At least they stop to get his shoes on the way; Napoleon would hate to make a new acquaintance with only his socks.

“Put them on,” one of the guards demands, tossing his loafers at him.

“I’ll have you know,” Napoleon grouses as he pulls his shoes on, “that these are…” He’s about to launch into a rant about the handling and care of Salvatore Ferragamo footwear when Napoleon feels the circular rim of a bug embedded under where the tongue meets the quarter because of course, Illya would bug his shoes. Because Illya, despite walking out on him, is as paranoid as they come and cares about him.

Because Illya is secretly _brilliant_.

Not that Napoleon would say it aloud. He brushes his fingers over the bug, activating the device while trying not to draw attention to it. He knows that Gaby has figured out his and Illya’s ridiculous game and is probably waiting in the hotel suite for one of them to send a signal.

“Hurry up,” the burlier of the two snaps, nudging Napoleon in the shoulder with his gun.

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “It’s never a good idea to rush a gentleman,” he sniffs as he finishes with his shoes. Upon being pulled to his feet, he smooths over the front of his shirt. “Speaking of, where is my jacket?”

“Come on!” the guard growls as he shoves Napoleon forward.

“It’s slowly becoming apparent to me that you are not a man of style,” Napoleon deadpans as he’s lead through a mansion. “Though your accommodations tell a different story.” He’s shoved again. “I’m just making conversation!” Napoleon complains, looking offended when he turns his head to face the guards.

“If you want to live, I suggest you keep quiet and keep walking,” the burly one warns.

Napoleon shrugs it off, pretending he’s not as able as he truly is or that his mind isn’t secretly focused on Illya and the people in his room. _It will be fine;_ he assures himself as they walk down the grand staircase. It has to be fine because it’s the only outcome Napoleon is thinking of. _Gaby will get our signal, Peril will wake up, and we’ll burn this place to the ground._

Shame, as it’s a truly stunning example of Tuscan architecture.

He’s led from a marble-floored entryway to another hallway, just as fine as the others proceeding it. Instead of allowing his eyes to wander, Napoleon keeps his gaze in front of him. Who knows what lies beyond the twists and turns of this excellently decorated mansion.

It seems that his destination is still preparing for Napoleon’s arrival; a lavish dining room as it turns out. Servants buzz around, filtering in and out with fine china and silver service trays. Beyond the doorway is a long dining table meant for numerous guests, not the three place settings that have been put there.

Napoleon raises a brow as one of the guards nudges him inside towards a tall, thin man nursing a glass of cognac. It’s easy to recognize his mark since he’s spent a great deal of time tailing him through Rome. “Dr. Alexey Volkov,” he says.

The doctor turns and reveals Napoleon’s astute observations of his physical appearance to be correct. Long and lean with a pale, slender face, Volkov is the very archetype of a Russian doctor. Volkov looks like a husk of a human being, which Napoleon attributes to his tenure with the KGB and being under their thumb. He lacks emotion, especially in his cold eyes which remind Napoleon of long, sunless winters.

If there’s one thing Napoleon Solo knows, it’s not to underestimate one’s foe; the doctor is as dangerous as any villain he’s come across.

“Mr. Napoleon Solo,” Volkov greets, tonelessly, as he sets his glass down. “In the flesh, no less.” He takes out a gold-plated cigarette holder and removes one. While striking a match against the flint, Volkov shrugs. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Ah, they have a tendency to do that,” Napoleon responds while he watches the doctor smoke a few puffs from the cigarette.

“Leave us,” Volkov orders, smoking curling from his nostrils. “And fetch Mr. Kuryakin. We have much to discuss.”

Napoleon finds himself alone in the dining room with Volkov, which unsettles his senses. Perhaps it’s being shot at with sedative-filled darts or that his partner is practically comatose upstairs. “We?” he questions.

“ _Glupyy_ does not become you, Mr. Solo,” Volkov tells him. He eyeballs his cigarette and watches the embers glow. Sighing, the doctor turns his attention to Napoleon and gestures impatiently for him to take a seat.

He does so only because he doesn’t want to earn this man’s wrath.

And yet, something about the gesture is terribly familiar. The quick, precise movements as he flicks his hand and wrist. Placing it is difficult, but then again, Napoleon’s still getting drugs out of his system; he can’t fault himself for that.

“Wine?” Volkov offers as a servant enters.

“It depends,” Napoleon replies as he glances at the carafe of red wine across from him, “on whether or not it’s laced with something. I hear it’s bad to mix drugs and alcohol.”

Volkov’s eyes darken at the slight. “I have no intention of killing you and your partner just yet,” he says.

Napoleon raises his brow at this before turning to the servant. “In that case, I’d like some water,” he answers, fixing his defiant gaze on Volkov.

The doctor’s upper lip curls into a sneer as the servant pours water into Napoleon’s glass. “You are most paranoid.”

“I’d like to think I have every reason to be,” Napoleon replies. He holds the stem, swirling the water around before drinking it. “After all, you _did_ shoot darts filled with a sedative at myself and Mr. Kuryakin.”

Volkov shrugs in agreement. “This is true. To be fair, _you_ have been following me all around Rome, Mr. Solo. Your partner happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. _Nevezeniye_ , as we say in Russia.”

“Bad luck,” Napoleon chuckles darkly. He downs the rest of his glass.

“ _Da_ ,” Volkov says. “Everyone runs into it from time to time; some more than others. Take Mr. Kuryakin, for instance. From the womb, he was cursed. His mother _predal_ him and his honor for what she did, even if she tried to save him before the end with those knights. She should have known that my comrades do not take kindly to being double-crossed.”

Napoleon presses his lips together and remains silent. He feels as if Volkov is trying to gloat him into revealing a tidbit of information; pillow talk between lovers or deep conversations between friends if he and Illya were such a thing.

“It’s just as well that Mr. Kuryakin was dealt the hand that life gave him,” Volkov continues, his cheeks coloring with anger. “A liar like his mother, a man with no respect for the motherland!”

“I’d have to disagree; Mr. Kuryakin has plenty of respect…perhaps _too_ much,” Napoleon replies.

Volkov sniffs. “He followed his mother’s folly,” he insists as his cold eyes flash like iron set inside of fire. “He’s a disgrace!”

“To the FSB?” Napoleon questions calmly. He shrugs. “He betrayed the very people who did the same to him as a child. I think it’s only fitting, don’t you?” With that, he reaches for the wine and pours some into his glass while the doctor looks on.

“You wouldn’t understand what loyalty means,” Volkov sneers as he stubs out his cigarette. “Only Russians do.”

Napoleon nearly spits the wine out of his mouth. “Now, now - there’s no need to insult everyone else!” he chastises. “Besides, it’s not entirely true. Look at Mr. Kuryakin.”

Volkov glares at him. “You are only loyal to yourself, Mr. Solo. If you had the option of foregoing torture by betraying your partner, you would do it.”

“You don’t know me very well,” Napoleon states. He hears the harsh tone of his own voice, that timbre of anger when someone mentions hurting Illya.

The doctor nods, backing down as he takes a seat at the end of the table. “Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong when Mr. Kuryakin graces us with his presence. I heard it took nearly four darts to bring him down; fought like an animal the entire time. All to keep you from harm, which I find interesting. Don’t you?”

“Not really. We protect each other.” Napoleon pictures Illya going wild once he, himself, lost consciousness. Those fierce blue eyes blazing, the cords of his neck visible as he fought and fought until he too was claimed by the sedative.

It’s no wonder Illya was difficult to rouse.

“That remains to be seen,” Volkov comments as one of the guards that escorted Napoleon to this room comes in and goes to the doctor.

They have a quiet, hurried conversation; too low for a certain American to eavesdrop. Volkov waves the other man away with a threat on his heels. “It seems Mr. Kuryakin is not himself,” Volkov explains to Napoleon. “ _Slabyy_ ; groggy.”

“You did shoot him with enough sedative to bring down an elephant,” Napoleon points out.

“ _Da_ , true,” Volkov agrees, “but he was trained by the best in our service. Perhaps his time with you and your MI6 associates have made him go soft, hm?”

Napoleon forces a smile, secretly relieved that Volkov doesn’t know which organization he works for. Volkov pours himself some wine and they sip their drinks in silence until the sound of heavy footfalls comes from the hallway. Napoleon rises from his seat and hurries to the door just in time for the bodyguards to shove Illya through it.

Clumsy and drugged, Illya falls into Napoleon’s arms with nothing more than a grunt. The force of it rocks his entire equilibrium and for a moment, he fears being crushed against the floor by Illya’s mass. Napoleon is able to keep both of them upright, though his partner sags in his grip.

“Peril,” he chides, holding onto both shoulders. Illya sways dangerously, eyes unfocused and bleary. Napoleon guesses their captors had only just gotten him to wake before bringing him to dine with Dr. Death. It doesn’t matter because Illya is here and together they’ll tear this place apart. “I never thought I’d glad to see you.”

It’s a lie, of course. He’s _always_ glad to see Illya; the idea of it makes his heart race.

To his credit, Illya grunts. “Cowboy,” he mutters, blinking deliberately as his senses kick in. “You make terrible spy.”

“Ah, still your charming self, Peril,” Napoleon comments. He doesn’t want to let go of him, not with these men all around him and Illya still drugged like he is. The poor man will likely tumble over before one can yell ‘Timber!’

Then Illya goes stock-still in Napoleon’s hands. Despite his posture being ramrod straight, Napoleon feels the tremors hitting his fingertips. He looks at Illya’s face and notices that instead of being pale, it’s gone grey while his eyes are wide like saucers. “Peril?” Napoleon whispers.

Illya’s fixed gaze doesn’t even flicker with acknowledgment. Napoleon follows it to Volkov, who remains seated with his glass of wine. He’s about to ask Illya if he recognizes the doctor, which, of course, he does; it’s terribly obvious. Napoleon opens his mouth to speak when he hears Illya’s voice, small and strained.

“Papa?”

 


	8. Chapter 8

“I beg your pardon?” Napoleon exclaims, eyes bouncing between Illya and Dr. Volkov in complete bewilderment.

The air crackles with too many emotions to name. Volkov takes a sip of his wine while his piercing eyes remained trained on Illya.

Illya who has seen a ghost.

Napoleon feels his hands dropping away from Illya’s body as he moves closer to the dining table, still drowning from the shock. No one needs to say a single thing to confirm what Napoleon already knows; it’s written in every reaction coming from the other men in the room. Volkov’s unrepentant stare, Illya’s uncertainty.

This man who has kept his identity a secret, even from U.N.C.L.E, is Nikolai Kuryakin. Napoleon notices the resemblance now and kicks himself for not seeing it before. While Illya shares his father’s mouth and blue eyes, he lacks the coldness that sets them in hard lines. He’s learned to enjoy life, as much as someone with Illya’s _sunny_ deposition can, and it’s softened potentially harsh features.

“T-they,” Illya starts to say before his voice fades off. He blinks again, like a man who believes he’s hallucinating. “They said…”

“ _Na Russkom, pozhaluysta_!” Volkov admonishes, narrowing his eyes in annoyance.

For a moment Napoleon thinks Illya may burst into tears from the sheer magnitude of it all. The confusion, the joy, the betrayal, the new questions popping into his head. It’s only fair, after all; Illya has thought his father to be dead since he was a child, and now he’s sitting in front of him.

Except, it’s not the man he remembers, as evident by the brightness in Illya’s eyes.

Illya licks his lips. “ _Oni skazali mne, chto ty umer_ ,” he says quietly.

Napoleon translates it on his own. _They told me you were dead._

“ _Da, ya znayu_ ,” Volkov replies, confirming Illya’s statement. He’s very calm about being reunited with his son after twenty-eight years. It’s disturbing. “ _My dumali, chto luchshe_.”

Illya steps forward. “Who?” he asks.

“ _Russkom_!” Volkov shouts, slamming his fist onto the table. Both Napoleon and Illya jump at the sound. “Have you forgotten your mother tongue?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Illya whispers, shaking his head. “ _Kak naschet mama_?”

“ _Umershiy_.” Volkov takes another sip from his glass while Illya stumbles forward as if someone has punched the air from his lungs.

Napoleon knows the feeling, that terrible hope beyond hope that a loved one is still alive and everything leading up the discovery has been a nightmare. He experienced it himself in the months following his parents’ deaths. Dialing their number only to remember it had been disconnected, thinking he saw them in the crowd - that ache that never truly leaves.

Hell, even now he still has to stop himself.

“I don’t…”

“ _Russkom_!” Volkov demands. He stands up, leaning over the table as his face colors. “ _Glupyy mal’chik! Takzhe kak tvoya mama_!”

Napoleon watches as Illya goes from a grief-stricken son to an angry man upon hearing the insult fall from Volkov’s lips. “Mama was a good woman!” he bellows. “She _never_ lied!”

“Her entire life was a lie!” Volkov counters.

“To be fair,” Napoleon pipes in as both men stare at him, “you also lied to him, doctor.”

Volkov frowns. “Shut up!” he hisses before turning his fury on Illya. “Your mother lied to both of us; she brought shame on our family, Ilyusha! If I had not done what I did…”

“ _Chto ty sdelal?_ ” Illya asks, stepping forward as he searches his father’s face in horror. “ _Papa, chto ty sdelal?_ ”

The older man straightens his posture and juts his chin out in defiance. It’s enough of an answer for Illya, who collapses into the nearest chair and stares at the table in front of him. His entire body deflated in defeat, growing paler as the realization of his father’s betrayal sinks in.

All of the years in an orphanage, unloved and victim to a tale woven by terrible men only to fall into the very ranks that took Illya’s childhood.

Napoleon can’t even imagine.

“You turned her in,” Illya intones as his voice trembles.

When he looks up, Napoleon notices the tears pooling in Illya’s eyes. He’s never seen his partner look anything but stoic.

That’s not entirely true; he’s witnessed the multitude of emotions contained inside of Illya. Anger, worry, lust, jealousy, paranoia, pensive; rarely embarrassed and, even rarer, genuinely happy.

Napoleon blames the old man at the end of the dining table for that. He clenches his fists, trying to will away the urge to strangle him for what he’s done. The protectiveness he feels for Illya has been there since the very beginning, even before they knew each other’s names.

Now it’s overwhelming.

“ _Da_ ,” Volkov answers very matter-of-factly. “I did. I had suspicions - I thought she was having an affair. It turned out to be much worse.”

Illya looks away, concealing his face from both Napoleon and Volkov.

“I found a slip of paper with coordinates,” the old man continues. “I will admit that your mother was intelligent. She wrote it out like an address but I was KGB trained. I knew.” Volkov pauses and watches his son’s reaction. “She was going to betray me to her people and take you away.”

Napoleon lets out harsh laughter before he can stop himself. “So you had your wife executed and your son sent to an orphanage to fend for himself?” he barks, angrily pointing at Illya. “Tell me, doctor, how well did _that_ work out for you? You _still_ lost him!”

“I did what I _had_ to do!” Volkov counters. “She could have destroyed everything!”

“You should have thought about that before you fathered a child with her!” Napoleon shouts. “She fooled you and you couldn’t bear it!”

Volkov digs his fingers into the varnished wood of the table. “Everything I worked for, my research, would have been ruined. And for what?” He spits onto the carpet while still holding Napoleon’s stare. “For nothing.”

“For honor.” Illya surprises both Napoleon and Volkov with his answer.

“ _Slava?_ Your mother had none of that, Ilyusha.” Volkov straightens himself with a sneer. “Of course, you would not remember this. You were just a boy.”

Illya tilts his head. “I remember Mama.”

“You remember the tales you told yourself; what all children tell themselves,” Volkov replies dismissively. “Do you recall the night the KGB came for us?” Illya nods. “What do you remember?”

Napoleon trades a cautious look with him. “I remember she told me that we were leaving, that you would meet us,” Illya says.

Volkov waves his hand for his son to go on.

“But I did not want to go without you,” Illya continues. “Then KGB came…” He blinks. “I never saw her again.”

The old man chuckles. “Childhood trauma has a way of affecting memories, does it not, Mr. Solo?” Volkov inquires as he walks over to Illya. He lays a hand on his son’s broad shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

Napoleon’s heart clenches as Illya shrivels away from the touch.

“I wouldn’t know,” Napoleon replies. “My parents weren’t homicidal maniacs.”

“They said you had trouble remembering,” Volkov says, ignoring Napoleon’s comment. “I read your FSB file and found it interesting that the night that shaped you is nothing but broken images.”

Illya swallows. “Perhaps I choose not to remember.”

“Or perhaps you were broken long before the FSB got their hands on you,” Volkov suggests. He smiles down at his son. “I may have ordered your mother’s death, but it was _you_ who let her chance of escape slip away. Illya, you had a hand in her murder just as much as I.”

Napoleon scoffs. “That is the biggest pile of shit I’ve _ever_ heard,” he snorts as he stomps over to a drinks trolley and pours himself a tumbler filled with whatever he can find first. Bringing the glass to his lips, Napoleon rolls his eyes. “You ought to take some parenting classes. Blaming a _child_ for the death of his mother…that’s a bit twisted even for me!”

“Do you remember two men who came to our home?” Volkov asks. He leans closer to Illya. “Two Englishmen?”

Illya’s eyes flicker from Volkov to Napoleon and back again, confusion and terror written all over his face. “ _Nyet._ ”

“Are you certain, Ilyusha?”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and Illya shakes his head. “ _Nyet_ , I do not remember.”

“They were sent by her mother, your _babushka_ , when she found out MI6 could not extract her. These men could,” Volkov states. “She was going to take you to them and leave the country before I knew what happened. Raise you in her homeland, she told me. In England.”

Illya makes a face. “England?”

“ _Da._ Your sweet mama was not Russian born, she was English.” Volkov smiles in grim amusement as Illya’s jaw falls slack. “Did you think you were a pure _Rossii_ , boy? _Nyet._ You are _autsayder_ , an outsider.” He squeezes his son’s shoulder again. “It must change your opinion of her, to know that she lied to you, too.”

Illya shrugs his hand away. “She was an honorable woman,” he states.

“She was a liar,” Volkov hisses. “A trait you inherited from her. How did you manage to find yourself in bed with MI6?”

“I approached _them_ ,” Illya replies, effectively silencing Volkov for the time being. He spares his father a victorious smirk before looking away.

Napoleon isn’t all that surprised to hear this; Illya _is_ his mother’s son. An honorable man trying to do the right thing despite the challenges in his way. He wonders how Illya managed to track them down or if his MI6 liaison made their appearance obvious.

Or perhaps Illya had a mission in London and simply walked inside. It wouldn’t be so far-fetched.

The sound of a slap rings out, leaving Illya’s reddened cheek and Volkov’s furious stare behind. Napoleon lurches forward, ready to fight when his partner looks at him. Everything in his eyes says _don’t_ , so Napoleon doesn’t; he stays where he is and continues drinking from the tumbler.

“Ingrate,” Volkov snarls. “After everything I’ve done for you!”

“You forced me to live the life of an orphan,” Illya fires back. “You could have fetched me…”

Volkov shakes his head. “My superiors would not have allowed it.”

“Then _defy_ them!” Illya yells. “I am also _your_ son!”

“My loyalties go beyond blood, Illya. It is something you would not have understood,” Volkov replies quietly, lowering his eyes.

Napoleon isn’t sure if there’s regret in his tone, but he doesn’t count on it. Nikolay Kuryakin died the night he turned his wife over to the authorities and sent his son away. “He needed you,” Napoleon interjects as gently as possible. “Your son needed you.”

“He survived well enough.”

His blood boils as he slams the glass down, jostling the drinks trolley. The lack of empathy disgusts him and at the same time, leaves Napoleon dumbfounded. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t love his own son.”

“Do not speak to me as if you understand, Mr. Solo,” Volkov fires back. “I had my work for the KGB, and if I wanted to stay alive, I needed to do what they asked.”

“But forget about the life of your son,” Napoleon scoffs. “While you got to continue your work, it didn’t matter what Illya went through. It’s all in the name of mother Russia!”

Volkov’s glare deepens. “You would not understand, _autsayder_ , what loyalty is. You go to the highest bidder and walk away once their money has touched your grubby hands. You do not bleed, sweat, and cry for anyone but your own pocketbook.”

“I think my platoon would disagree,” Napoleon says calmly, noting the surprise in Volkov’s icy stare. “As for money, it is the root of all evil; I’m sure you were paid handsomely for abandoning your family.”

Illya looks to his father. “Were you?” he asks.

“What kind of question is that?” Volkov demands.

“A fair one,” Illya counters. “And one you should answer.”

Volkov bristles at this, seemingly surprised by his son’s nature. It makes Napoleon want to laugh as he thinks that Illya’s father pictured him to be a perfect soldier who never questioned orders. If he hadn’t realized this wasn’t the case when word got out that Illya was a double agent, then he’s an idiot.

“ _Byli li vy?_ ” Illya demands, his voice cracking. “Papa?”

The doctor steps away from him and returns to his seat. His hands curl over the carved wood as he silently avoids his son’s gaze.

“I believe your…” Napoleon begins to say.

Volkov’s frown stops him from finishing. “ _Da_ , yes!” he shouts, shoving the chair away. “They did! I was rewarded for proving my loyalties.”

Glass shatters against the wall and leaves remnants of wine on the plaster. Napoleon flinches at the sound, though he could care less. His focus is entirely on Illya who is trying to keep himself together. Pale and deeply disturbed by his father’s words, Illya retains his fierceness with heartbreaking beauty.

How he meets Volkov’s gaze, Napoleon will never know, and speaks. “You are a coward,” he tells his father. “A coward with no loyalties or conscience!”

“What does that make you then?” Volkov snaps. His face contorts with rage, untamed and uncontrollable; he might be KGB trained, but he is a demon of a man. Volkov spits again. “Your mother’s son!” he declares like a curse.

Illya nods. “I am.”

“You are a stain!” the old man continues. “A stain in a tapestry of mistakes I’ve made. First your mother and now _you!_ ”

Illya’s schooled expression doesn’t falter. “I’d rather be a mistake than like you.”

“I agree with Peril,” Napoleon interjects. “Mrs. Kuryakin sounds like _much_ better company than you. No offense.”

Volkov’s face colors as he pulls a gun out from his suit jacket and points it at Napoleon. “My superiors expect me to take care of this mess,” he states, cocking the hammer. “I ought to start with you first, Mr. Solo.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Napoleon tells him, gesturing towards Illya. “He _will_ tear you apart limb from limb.”

“He is correct,” Illya agrees, darkly.

Volkov glances between them and laughs hysterically after a moment. “Regardless of what Illya thinks of me, I am still his father. My blood runs through his veins!” He takes out a handkerchief and uses it to dab his eyes. “He would rather die than harm me!”

Napoleon scoffs. “A bit _too_ sure of ourselves, aren’t we?” He barely has time to duck as the gun goes off and a bullet embeds itself inches from where he’s standing. Bits of plaster rains down upon his head, coating his hair as Napoleon’s heart pounds wildly in his chest. Cautiously, he stands to find Illya leaning over the table to see if he’s all right while Volkov looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“That was a warning, Mr. Solo,” Volkov announces.

He dusts himself off. “I gathered,” Napoleon says dourly before turning to Illya. “You _definitely_ inherited your impeccable aim from your mother, Peril.” He holds his hands up as Volkov brandishes the weapon at him. “You have _no_ sense of humor.”

“Testing my patience is unwise,” Volkov tells him as the same bodyguards who escorted Napoleon enter once more, looking as unfriendly and menacing as they did the first time.

Several more join them and separate as each small group goes to their chosen prisoners. One of them grabs Illya by the bicep, whispering harsh Russian as he pulls on him. Illya glares at him but stands without comment.

Napoleon suspects that his father’s tirade has given Illya the adrenaline to be upright without wobbling. He dwarfs the men crowding around him with their guns, both in size and in presence. Napoleon follows his lead as they are taken from the room with Volkov on their heels.

Over the course of their partnership, they’ve been held at gunpoint by many foes. Escaping it has become an art form, and this will be no different. While Volkov is Illya’s father, he is the enemy in the end and will be treated no differently.

“I should let you both live,” Volkov muses from behind them. “Both of you are excellent specimens for my project. Certainly, you will survive the initial treatment.”

Napoleon turns his head. “Your failed project?” he asks.

“Failure does not exist in science,” Volkov curtly responds. “There is only advancement.”

“I think your predecessors may disagree with you,” Napoleon fires back.

It earns him being pistol-whipped across the right side of his face. He falls into the wall as Illya shouts “Cowboy!” in a panicked tone.

“Nyet!” a guard demands. He must ram the butt of his weapon into Illya’s stomach because Napoleon hears his pained grunt. “ _Ostavaysya tam!_ ”

Napoleon blinks, finding his axis with Illya’s worried face. He offers his partner a smirk. “It’s fine, Peril,” he says. “I’m used to it; pitfalls of the job.”

“ _Sumasshedshiy_ ,” Illya retorts as his mouth twitches in amusement.

He’s certainly not wrong.

“Silence!” Volkov bellows. “I ought to kill you right now, Mr. Solo.”

There’s an explosion from outside, shaking the foundations of the mansion and bringing a smile to Napoleon’s face. “Ah,” he says over the continuous rumbling. “I suggest you make it quick; it seems our escape plan has arrived.”

Rage contorts Volkov’s face as another explosion rocks the house. He grabs one of the guards by the arm and snarls curt orders in Russian before pushing them away. Pointing his gun at Napoleon, he meets Illya’s stare with a menacing grin. “ _Idti!_ ” he orders. “ _Vy oba!_ ”

Rough hands pull Napoleon to his feet and shove him into Illya. They collide, causing them to stumble against the wall. It doesn’t matter; Illya wraps his arms around Napoleon to protect him from more injury and he can’t help the way his heart stirs in his chest.

If he’s going to die at the hands of a madman, at least it will be with Illya next to him.

They also notice how few guards are left in their presence. Five, six if one counts Volkov, against him and Illya; better than before, but still not optimal. Between the two of them, they could easily overtake their captors and spirit Volkov into U.N.C.L.E custody.

“Are you all right?” Illya whispers once they’ve straightened themselves out. His eyes are focused on the still bleeding gash across Napoleon’s forehead.

He shrugs. “Flesh wound,” Napoleon mutters. “Have had worse.”

“ _Idti!_ ” Volkov shouts, nudging the gun’s end into the small of Illya’s back.

Napoleon blinks and finds Illya disarming the guard in front of him before turning his wrath onto the others.

It’s a macabre dance of carnage; the very thing the FSB conditioned Illya to do from the time he was a young man. Napoleon’s seen it on their previous missions since they never seem to avoid a firefight, though they lacked the uncontrollable rage currently embedded in his partner’s movements. Illya strikes, sending each one of the guards to the floor in a flurry of broken bones, screams, and, for the one who pistol-whipped Napoleon, a bullet hole in the head.

Illya’s well-contained fury is like a detonation, exploding violently until it’s only he, Napoleon, and Volkov left standing. It’s truly one of the most stunning sights Napoleon has been witness to and he has been witness to plenty. Illya stands in the center of the deadly chaos, hands clenched into fists and back heaving from exertion.

So merciless and beautiful, Napoleon muses, and he loves him all the more. He wants to smile at him, to show his affections and his acceptance of everything Illya is comprised of, except he registers the sound of a gun’s hammer being cocked next to his ear.

Napoleon’s body stills immediately, save for his hands that he raises in surrender. “Peril,” he warns.

He watches as Illya turns with a gun in hand, his clear blue eyes widening at the image of his own father holding Napoleon at gunpoint. “Cowboy,” Illya gasps. He moves towards him.

“I think not, Ilyusha.” Volkov presses the blunt end of weapon into Napoleon’s head, stopping Illya mid-step. “Unless you want Mr. Solo’s death to be on your hands; it would not be the first time, after all.”

Illya’s nostrils flare as he points the gun at his father. “My hands are clean.”

“ _Nyet,_ they are not. I have seen your files, boy,” Volkov counters. It sounds like he’s smiling, and Napoleon wishes he was in the position to punch him. “You and I are cut from the same cloth, whether you want to admit it.”

Illya shakes his head. “I do not betray those I love.”

“You betrayed me! You betrayed Russia!” Volkov shouts. He nudges the gun deeper into Napoleon’s already tender scalp. “All for what? This man?”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “I’ll have you know,” he scoffs, “that I am a good man with reasonable values, more or less. _And_ I certainly wouldn’t sell my _child_ off to the highest bidder!”

“Cowboy,” Illya warns. “Shut. Up.”

“He will turn on you when it suits him,” Volkov continues, “and leave you out to dry. Do you truly think that this man has your best interests?”

The muscles in Illya’s throat move as he swallows. “He has saved my life when it endangered his own. Since the very beginning.”

“You’re a fool!” Volkov yells. “A bloody fool!”

“Your son has a point,” Napoleon argues, nonchalantly. “I _did_ risk my life despite him trying to ruin my mission.”

Illya glares at him. “I was _not_ trying to ruin your mission!”

“You punched me in the face!” Napoleon hisses. “Twice, no less! And don’t get me started on the black eye…”

Over the clap of a gun firing, his voice dies as Napoleon wonders if Volkov has decided to blow his brains out. His breath hitches in his throat, expecting his world to tunnel into darkness where Death waits for him only to feel the sharp claws of pain digging themselves into his calf. Napoleon looks down at the blood dripping from his slacks, slowing realizing that there’s a bullet in his leg.

“Holy mother…” Napoleon rasps as he collapses in agony. He glares up at Volkov. “You shot me! In the _fucking_ leg!”

Volkov shrugs. “Next time, it _will_ be your head.” He’s quick to point the gun at Illya as he tries to go to Napoleon’s side. “ _Ne nado, Ilyusha._ I will kill him if you come closer.”

Illya curses under his breath while Napoleon presses his trembling hand against his bloody pant leg. The pain intensifies, burning throughout his body and in those moments, Napoleon wishes he would pass out. “I’m fine, Peril,” he assures in a strained voice.

“You do not look fine,” Illya points out, his eyes never leaving Volkov’s face.

“You aren’t even looking at me,” Napoleon grumbles. Shit, he’s forgotten how much it hurts to get shot as nausea surges inside his stomach. “What do you know?”

Illya’s nostrils flare. “Cowboy,” he warns. His eyes remain locked with Volkov’s, watching and waiting for the other man’s next move.

“You can put that down,” Volkov tells him with a smirk. “I know you’ll never hurt me, Ilyusha. Now that you know that your dear papa is still alive.”

“I’d prefer if he keeps it,” Napoleon cuts in through gritted teeth. He really hopes Gaby’s thought to have medics with her, which she probably has, and that they have a lot of pain relievers on hand. Napoleon would give anything to have a shot of morphine right now.

Or have someone knock him out; he’s not picky.

Illya shakes his head. “I am a changed man. I am not the boy you left behind.”

“Ah, but you are,” Volkov counters as his smirk grows, curling his thin mouth into a morbid smile. “You are still the little boy who followed me everywhere and watched me in my office. Do you remember how you’d come in with your toys and help me stack papers?”

Napoleon tries to picture it - Illya as a tiny thing, if that was even possible, following his father around their home. Illya’s chubby hands handing Volkov papers as they worked in tandem while his mother looked on. Illya with a smile on his face that came more easily than it does now.

“That boy is gone,” Illya states. “And so is that man.”

Volkov sneers. “You are not wrong, Ilyusha,” he says calmly, fingers caressing the trigger of the gun. “Soon that boy will be dead and finally able to join his traitorous mama. But first…”

Napoleon sees the gun out of his peripheral before squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t fancy having the last thing his eyes ever focus on being the very weapon that kills him.

“ _Nyet!_ ” Illya shouts.

The panic in his voice causes Napoleon to blink his eyes open to the beautiful sight of Illya standing there while Volkov’s laughter rings in his ears.

“You would really kill me?” the old man taunts. “For him?”

Cold metal presses against Napoleon’s tender head, but it doesn’t matter. He’s completely and utterly focused on Illya, who purses his lips together as he nods.

The gun’s pressure lifts, leaving a dull ache behind. Volkov raises his hands. “ _Vam ne khvatayet smelosti,_ ” he dares. “I am your father.”

A heartbeat comes and goes, quiet like Death lingering in the shadows and of all things in darkness. “My father is dead,” Illya replies.

He pulls the trigger.

 

* * *

 

Gaby and the U.N.C.L.E extraction team find him and Illya not long after Volkov’s corpse hits the floor; Napoleon reckons the gunshots lead them to their location, though he doesn’t say it aloud.

He doesn’t have time to; as soon as Gaby sees his bleeding leg, she’s shouting for the medical unit, who come in quick succession. They place him on a stretcher since Napoleon is unable to bear weight on the injured limb without wanting to vomit, and he suffers through the indignity of it all as Illya and Gaby follow him outside. He notices the wreckage of their rescue; dead bodies, blood splatters, trembling servants with blankets draped over their shoulders while U.N.C.L.E agents speak with them.

A hellish nightmare that they’ll all remember for a time until even that fades from memory.

Not for him or Illya, who remains by his side and as silent as ever. He looks paler now, depleted from the shock of the day’s events. Gaby notices, Napoleon is certain she does and doesn’t round on either of them. She’s always had that eerie foresight as she reaches for Illya’s hand, giving it a squeeze. He accepts it without comment, his eyes still looking ahead.

He’s a man barely holding it together. A man whose illusions of his life have been shattered.

A man who killed his own father.

Outside where the air isn’t tinged with blood, but the scent of olive trees, it only gets worse. As an IV port is pushed into the top of Napoleon’s hand, Illya becomes sick to his stomach.

Two medics and Gaby huddle around him as he vomits into the dirt, keeping him from Napoleon’s sight. “Peril!” he shouts, trying to crane his neck to see the other man. “Peril!” Pain radiates from his leg and he cries out, clutching it as someone pushes an icy fluid into the IV.

“I’m fine, Cowboy,” Illya weakly calls back. His tired face appears as the medics help him into the ambulance alongside Napoleon. He’s shivering now, appearing small and childlike as he, too, is hooked up to an IV of his very own. He forces a weak smile that doesn’t reach his dull eyes.

What a pair they make, Napoleon muses as they’re taken from the mansion to a U.N.C.L.E-designated medical facility in close proximity to an airfield.

Gaby says as much while a doctor is poking around Napoleon’s leg. It’s a miracle that the bullet didn’t go all the way through. “What am I going to do with you both?” she teases, eyes bright with happy tears. She reaches for his hand and runs her thumb over his knuckles.

“Ground us,” Napoleon answers.

“That’s definitely happening,” Gaby counters. “I doubt Waverly would want you up and about on that leg. You’re enough trouble as it is, Solo!”

He doesn’t argue and just grins at her. “You secretly adore me, Ms. Teller.”

Lips touch his fingers. “You know I do,” Gaby whispers before ruffling his hair. “It doesn’t make you less of an idiot.”

Once his leg has been tended to and Napoleon has new pants on, he is taken via a wheelchair to a private jet that Waverly has chartered for them. He finds Illya already on board, still hooked up to an IV line like Napoleon is.

It’s just as well; villain-made sedatives are nasty business and should be pushed out of one’s system as soon as possible.

Napoleon spends the flight back to London watching Illya out of the corner of his eye. They’re seated across the aisle from each other since Napoleon must keep his leg elevated, but neither one speaks. Illya bides his time looking at the sky as it darkens from day to dusk to evening. He’s gotten some of his color back, but Napoleon has an inkling it goes deeper than anything the others are aware of.

The echoes of gunshots still ring in Napoleon’s ears. He thinks of how he flinched and squeezed his eyes tighter and tighter until Illya ran out of bullets and he let the blasted thing drop from his hands.

Of all the horrible things he’s seen in his lifetime, Napoleon won’t be able to tuck the image of Illya’s haunted expression into the vestiges of his mind. That hopelessly lost, devastated mien Illya never wears well, forever ingrained like the very worst nightmare come to life.

Napoleon can’t get it out of his head; it follows him all the way to the Savoy in London, where Waverly has put them up until the doctors clear everyone to fly home. The suite is lovely and has a gift basket with flowery apologies from their boss who is en route to Italy.

He notices none of it; he's focused on Illya, who falls behind as he tries to make himself as small and invisible as possible.

The very same Illya that excuses himself with his suitcase Gaby fetched from their Roman hotel and lumbers into his room. He spares Napoleon a solemn glance while a medic fits him with crutches and Gaby helps herself to some macaroons before disappearing.

In that instant, Napoleon wants to follow him but resigns himself to staying put without complaint. He’s lucky; his cut from being pistol-whipped hadn’t resulted in a concussion and the bullet didn’t break bone or important arteries, nor does it require surgery. Soon it will be another silvery battle scar to boast about in his small collection of them on his body. Another thing to tease Waverly with when Napoleon is about to be scolded.

When he’s able to, Napoleon takes a long, hot shower. He scrubs the horrific day down the drain and gingerly shampoos bits of dried blood out of his hair. While it should relax him, all it does is dredge up Illya’s face against his closed eyelids.

The visceral need to be in Illya’s sphere pulls at him as he shuts off the water and carefully steps out of the stall. Napoleon can no better explain it now than he could when he first made the man’s acquaintance on board a yacht in the middle of Mediterranean. It’s like a siren song, always intoxicating and frightening.

As Napoleon hobbles out of the bathroom on his crutches, he can’t move fast enough. He must pace himself because if he trips and tears open the stitches, Gaby will most certainly send him back to University College Hospital just out of spite.

Gaby is sitting on the sofa with her feet propped up on the coffee table while she watches a movie. It appears she’s also taken a shower and changed into pajamas with the fuzzy Killer Bunny slippers Napoleon got her as a joke several years ago. She hears him grunting and sits up immediately, worry crossing over her pretty face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Napoleon assures as he continues on his way. Once he passes the sofa, he stops. “Just going to check on Illya.”

Bless Gaby Teller and her amazing perceptiveness as she nods. Gaby waves him on as she turns back to the main characters making out on screen. “Let me know if you need anything,” she says quietly, offering him a bright, encouraging smile.

Illya’s door has been left opened a crack, which Napoleon nudges further with one of his crutches and wincing at the god awful creaking sound it makes. He limps inside, following the path of light into the darkened room. Illya’s things are scattered about, his shoes by the dresser and the suitcase at the foot of the bed.

“Peril?” he whispers as he taps the door shut. Napoleon cranes his head, listening for the other occupant.

He hears him, but not in the form he expected; underneath bed linens and concealed by darkness, Illya sniffles. Napoleon comes closer, catching moonlight reflecting off the tear tracks on the other man’s face. They pool in the corners of his eyes before falling down his face or onto the pillow.

“Peril,” Napoleon breathes, setting his crutches down next to the bed. He slides under the covers and across the mattress, wrapping an arm around Illya’s waist. Settling his face between Illya’s shoulder blades, Napoleon feels him whimper before the sound pierces the air.

He’s felt Illya tremble under his touch many times before—from injury, after they go running and try to best each other, following sex—but never like this. This is devastation, the kind in which has shattered even the most formidable of men.

The silence of the room breaks under Illya’s muffled cries, leaving the metallic taste of sadness palpable on Napoleon’s tongue. For a man whose emotions are hard to gauge at the best of times, Napoleon vows to cradle Illya through his grief as he laces their fingers together. He gives them a tender squeeze, never speaking as his partner sobs deep into the night.

It doesn’t matter what happens later—if Gaby finds them wrapped up in each other come morning or Waverly pieces their relationship together. He loves Illya no matter what, and if the day’s events are anything to go by, Illya shares Napoleon’s sentiments.

Pressing his lips to the warmth of Illya’s nape, Napoleon closes his eyes and feels like he’s finally come home.


	9. Chapter 9

The late morning light streams through the windowpanes while Gaby goes about ordering too much food in the main room; leave it to her to be overly indulgent after a rough mission.

Waverly will probably have a fit about it later on, but none of it matters to Napoleon. He shifts, feeling the weight of a heavy arm settled over his stomach and a small sound of protest from its owner. He’s been awake for hours, watching as the shadows drift across the ceiling while Illya sleeps against his shoulder, immersing himself in the quiet.

No missions, no recon, no early meetings with Waverly. It’s just him and Illya in bed, cocooned under blankets and their own warmth. Here, they can hide away from the madness for a while. The world at large can wait for them to emerge and halt whatever nonsense it has in store.

And perhaps Napoleon can finally get some shut-eye, which he got very little of the night before.

Truthfully, he hadn’t been sure what to expect when he hobbled into Illya’s darkened room.

A sharp rebuke, perhaps. Maybe Illya carrying him back to his own bed while cursing in Russian about what a pain in the ass Napoleon is. Or a night spent sitting in silence while he watches over Illya as he processes what has happened.

Whichever way he can give comfort to his partner, Napoleon would gladly do it, and yet, Illya surprises him. It’s in the most gut-wrenching fashion and in a fleeting moment of anger, Napoleon wishes he could resurrect Dr. Alexey Volkov just to kill him again.

He’s no necromancer or wizard, just a man with impeccable style and charm. And a complete head case when it comes to interpersonal relationships.

The sound of Illya’s snuffling as he draws closer to Napoleon earns his attention. With a quick glance, Napoleon finds the other man still fast asleep with no signs of waking anytime soon. He reaches over, brushing Illya’s blond, unstyled hair off his forehead, and admires how the sunlight reflects off each strand. It reminds Napoleon of some rather lovely gold bricks he saw in a mafia don’s house, though he thinks Illya is far more precious than that.

Illya makes the sound again, resembling a rather large house cat purring. Napoleon quietly hushes him, pressing his lips to Illya’s hairline, and holds him close, waiting until the other man is completely still.

Napoleon gently traces his fingertips over Illya’s face—caressing cheekbones, the pointed tip of his nose, the curve of his jaw—mentally kicking himself all the while for being such an idiot. He loves this man so stupidly and horribly and he’s wasted precious time acting like an asshole.

As the warmth of Illya’s breath drifts across Napoleon’s chest, he thinks changing isn’t going to be hard.

If it means seeing Illya smile or easing his sorrows, Napoleon would do anything for him.

Anything at all.

 

* * *

 

Illya is unwontedly quiet for the first few days they are in London.

Not that he has been the most talkative person but his silence has become a little unsettling and seems to worry Gaby more than it does him. Napoleon catches her watching Illya over the top of one of her magazines, eyes filled with concern as their team member sits by the window, staring aimlessly.

Grief affects everyone differently, and in Illya’s case, he burrows inside himself if he isn’t sharing a bed with Napoleon. He’s spent every night curled into Napoleon’s side as they lie together, waiting for sleep to claim them.

“Is he all right?” Gaby whispers while Napoleon is writing the mission report. Illya has just left the room to venture into his own, looking dazed as ever. She fills his vacant spot on the sofa, carefully avoiding Napoleon’s injured leg.

Napoleon momentarily glances up from his laptop and sighs; he might as well pull the band-aid off quickly. “The good doctor, Volkov, was his father,” he states.

Gaby’s mouth works, struggling to come up with words to say. Shock never wears well on her, and this bit of news is just as shocking as they come. Her eyes drift towards Illya’s room, where she’s able to compose herself. He’s glad he doesn’t have to tell Gaby much since she’s always been a quick study and watches as she pieces everything together. “That bastard,” she finally says.

“Hm,” Napoleon agrees as he continues typing. “Amongst other things. I’ll debrief with Waverly when he comes by. If you wouldn’t mind…” He looks up in earnest and sighs with relief when Gaby nods.

“I’ll take Illya out for lunch,” Gaby assures with a soft smile. “Perhaps he’ll like to see a few of the sights. The Museum of the Order of St. John seems like something he might enjoy.”

Napoleon raises a brow. “Which one’s that? Is it priests? Because I doubt Peril will appreciate that.”

“No, you idiot. It’s the one about the knights,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “Something about the Crusades and all that medieval nonsense…”

He homes in on a single word—knights—while tuning Gaby out entirely. Usually, Napoleon enjoys their discussions about historical events, but at that very moment, he can’t think of anything else. _Knights_ , he muses, remembering Volkov’s mad ravings.

_His mother predal him and his honor for what she did, even if she tried to save him before the end with those knights, Volkov had told him while they waited for Illya’s arrival._

His ranting of an English grandmother and extended family Illya knew nothing about. Family that could very well still be alive, wondering whatever became of their daughter’s little boy.

“Solo?” Gaby calls, nudging his foot. “Napoleon? Are you still with me?”

A dull ache fills his leg. “Don’t touch that!” Napoleon hisses at her as he rubs his swaddled calf. “The entire limb hurts, you know.”

“Such a drama queen,” Gaby sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “You disappeared for a moment. Should I get your pain medication?”

Napoleon glares at her; dammit Gaby for being in tune with his pain. _“No_ ,” he huffs. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“One second,” she tells him as she stands up. Gaby drops a kiss on his forehead and pats his shoulder as she passes him. “What would you do without me?” she calls from his seldom-used room.

“Whine until Peril came to help me,” he shouts back, still thinking about Volkov’s words. Napoleon reaches for his cell phone and pulls up one of his contacts. It could all be coincidence, but for Illya’s sake, checking into a possible hunch wouldn’t hurt.

A hunch that would give Illya closure and, perhaps, family.

Napoleon punches a message into a text. _In London for a bit. Would you and the mister care to catch up?_

Eggsy’s reply comes just as Gaby brings two pills and a glass of water. _Bout fuckin’ time, you twat! Want to pop over tomorrow for tea?_

 _Wouldn’t miss watching you trying to be a gentleman for the world,_ Napoleon types back, snickering as he hits send.

Gaby sits down again. “Something funny?” she inquires.

“Would you mind keeping Peril company tomorrow?” Napoleon asks as his phone goes off with Eggsy’s response. It’s undoubtedly filled with swears and emojis insinuating sex acts. “I just want to check into something; tying up loose ends and all that.”

“By,” Gaby says as she peers over his phone to see Eggsy’s text message, “having tea with two Kingsman? How is Eggsy these days?”

Napoleon snorts. “Wrapped around Merlin’s fingers, it seems. Shall I give him your well-wishes?”

“You shall,” she replies sweetly before her expression turns stern. “Now take these so Illya and I don’t have to listen to your complaints all day!”

 

* * *

 

“Fuckin’ hell, bruv, what happened to you?” Eggsy Unwin gasps as Napoleon hobbles down the corridor towards the lad’s front door.

Napoleon pauses to catch his breath, forgetting how tedious crutches can be. “Shot through the calf,” he explains as he starts moving. “Though between you and me, Unwin, it feels like the entire leg.”

“I’d reckon,” Eggsy agrees, eyeing the injured limb as Napoleon comes to him. “You’re doin’ better on ‘em crutches than Merlin did. Thought he was goin’ break the other leg with the way he was teeterin’ about!”

“I _heard_ that!” Merlin shouts from inside the flat.

Napoleon and Eggsy trade snickers. “Looking good, Unwin.”

“Feelin’ better than you, I’d imagine,” Eggsy says, worriedly. “Come on, Solo. Let’s get you inside.”

It sounds like the best idea Napoleon’s ever heard in the past three hours. He follows Eggsy inside, refraining from making comments about the lad’s hovering. For all of Eggsy’s brashness, he does have a good heart when it comes to his family and friends.

As Eggsy is helping him sit down on the couch, Merlin comes wandering out of the kitchen with their dog, JB, on his heels. A frown crosses the other man’s face when he sees Napoleon’s current state. “I suppose scotch is out of the question,” he comments.

“Scotch is _never_ out of the question,” Napoleon grunts as Eggsy guides his leg onto the coffee table and gently sets it down on a pillow he’s tossed on top of some magazines. “If you have an extra bottle, I’d gladly take it off your hands.”

Merlin chuckles. “Aye, I’d have to decline, but I might have some extra pain medication left over,” he offers as he wanders back into the kitchen.

Napoleon shakes his head as JB hops onto the couch and stares at him. “I just need to prop it up for a bit,” he replies, scratching the pug behind his floppy ears. “But thanks.”

“So what brings you to London?” Eggsy inquires. “Business or pleasure or art theft?”

“I am _incredibly_ offended that you seem to believe that art theft doesn’t fall under pleasure,” Napoleon grouses while still petting JB. The pug flops against him, panting happily at the attention as if he doesn’t get enough of it already.

Eggsy snorts at him. “Business, then.”

“Actually, end of some nasty business in Rome.”

“Rome?” Eggsy balks, his face scrunching up at the word. “I thought you _hated_ Rome?”

Napoleon sighs in agreement. “Even more so, it seems,” he replies as he gestures to his leg. “Was tracking down a rather nasty Russian doctor named Volkov who, blessedly, has terrible aim.”

“I reckon your fellow didn’t appreciate that very much,” Eggsy teases with a shit-eating grin.

He feels his cheeks burning; he’s never telling Eggsy anything about his private life ever again. “Peril _is not_ my fellow,” Napoleon gently argues. He notices JB looking up at him with his big brown eyes. “He’s not!”

“Please! You’ve been shaggin’ him for, what…nearly six months now?” the younger man counters. “‘Bout time you tell him how you feel, bruv.”

Merlin pokes his head around the corner. “Remember that time you took six months to tell me how you felt and you cried?” he deadpans. “Because _I_ do.”

“Unwin, you cried?” Napoleon gasps, watching as Eggsy’s face turns very red. “Really?”

Eggsy covers his face with a pillow and groans while Napoleon explodes with laughter. “Worst boyfriend ever!” he shouts, voice muffled by the fabric. “Ought to chuck you to the curb!”

Merlin chuckles as he comes into the living room, carrying their lunch on a tray which he sets down on the coffee table. He goes to Eggsy, bending over to kiss his forehead. “I think you rather adore me, _a ghràidh_ ,” he intones.

Eggsy pokes his head up, eyeing Merlin with suspicion. “I guess I do,” he mutters, to which his boyfriend laughs as he kisses Eggsy again, this time on the lips, before taking a seat next to him on the other couch. “How did Illya react to you gettin’ shot at?”

“He unloaded an entire magazine into the good doctor,” Napoleon answers dutifully.

“On second thought, we’re going to need that scotch,” Merlin says, standing up and going to the kitchen.

Eggsy stares at him, his green eyes wide in disbelief. “An entire magazine?”

“It’s not like Merlin hasn’t done the same for you,” he counters.

“Yeah, but we were datin’, bruv!” Eggsy tosses the pillow to his side, shaking his head all the while. “You sure Illya doesn’t have feelings for you?”

Napoleon shrugs. “I don’t think he’s really focused on that at the moment,” he says quietly. “Volkov was his father.”

He’s glad he doesn’t need to elaborate for Eggsy; the lad’s always been quick on the uptake, which is probably one of the many reasons his predecessor submitted him for candidacy. “Well, fuck me,” Eggsy finally says, stunned as he slumps back. Licking his lips, he stares at Napoleon with concern in his eyes. “How’s he holdin’ up?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Napoleon tells him as Merlin comes back, balancing three glasses and a bottle of his best scotch.

While Merlin pours them drinks, Eggsy quietly explains what he missed. “Shit,” the Scot mutters as he passes Napoleon a glass. “That’s a rough blow, finding out your father is a madman.”

“Peril isn’t like him,” Napoleon is quick to say, earning an understanding smile from Merlin.

“Of course not,” Merlin assures. “Mr. Kuryakin is the good sort.”

“Which brings me to why I really came, aside from wanting to see my two favorite Kingsman agents,” Napoleon says once he’s taken a sip from his drink.

Eggsy and Merlin chuckle. “Don’t let Roxy hear you say that,” the former tells him. “She’ll shoot your other calf.”

Napoleon laughs as Merlin flicks Eggsy’s ear. He used to give the lad a lot of flak for his relationship with someone as serious as the tech wizard. As time has gone on, Napoleon’s seen how well suited they are for one another and he feels a pang of jealousy. He wonders if he and Illya could ever have something like his friends; that easy, carefree connection that comes so naturally.

“It’s probably nothing,” he finally says. “Volkov mentioned something that got me thinking. He said Illya’s mother tried to flee the country with help from some knights, two Englishmen…”

“And you’re wonderin’ if Kingsman might have had somethin’ to do with it,” Eggsy concludes.

He nods, turning to Merlin who contemplates what Napoleon has told them. “Does a botched rescue operation in Russia sound familiar to you? It would have happened sometime in 1989.”

“Possibly,” Merlin replies. He brings his glass to his lips and drinks, smacking them together once he’s done. “It was a bad time back then. Kingsman was a part of a lot of rescues.”

“But with a child involved?” Napoleon adds, desperate. He sighs, hanging his head between his shoulders. “It’s just…Peril could have living relatives somewhere in the world. In the UK, even, and it would be nice if they were found.” He glances up at both of them. “His mother was English, as it turns out.”

Eggsy makes a confused sound. “Sounds like we’re in a fuckin’ spy novel,” he mutters.

“Like it’s that kind of movie,” Napoleon grumbles.

They sip their drinks in silence while Merlin mulls the information over. Finally, he sets his glass down and leans closer to Napoleon. “I’ll poke around our archives, but I’ve got to warn you, it could take a while. Even with all of our advancements in the system, something like this could be buried. Perhaps if we had more information?”

“I’d rather not,” he says. Napoleon swirls his glass around, staring at the contents. “I haven’t told Peril about my hunch. I think it will be too much with all that’s happened.”

Merlin nods in agreement. “Fair enough.”

“That’s it?” Napoleon asks, surprised. “I don’t owe you anything?”

“We’re friends, lad,” Merlin tells him as he stands up. “Now sit and relax while I get us some proper drinks. I can’t send you back to Gaby smelling like a pub. She’ll have my arse!”

In their line of business, having genuine friendships is a rarity. Napoleon counts himself as one of the lucky few when it comes to having people he cares about and trusts. “Thank you,” he says to Merlin’s retreating figure, laughing as Merlin waves him off.

“So,” Eggsy snickers. “When will you tell Illya you love ‘im?”

“Already did, and he walked out on me,” Napoleon fires back with a scowl. “It was _before_ we got kidnapped together.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Well, I think he feels the same if he’s emptyin’ an entire magazine into his own dad after he shot you. And the way you two bicker it’s like you’re an old married couple…or Merlin and I.”

“I think now isn’t the time to approach that subject with him,” Napoleon sighs, earning a yip from JB, who demands more attention from their guest. He begins scratching his stomach, chuckling at how the pug’s tongue lolls out of his mouth in happiness. “He’s barely talked in the past few days.”

“He barely talks _period_!” Eggsy barks, his laughter ringing in the living room. “Only when you’re about; reckon so he can yell at you, bruv. Never seen a man who takes more pleasure in arguin’ with someone than your Illya.”

Napoleon feels himself blushing. “He’s not mine,” he mutters as JB barks at him. “He’s not!”

“Even the bloody dog knows,” Eggsy tells him with a delighted grin. “Face it, mate, you’ve landed yourself a tall, a _very_ tall, and very broody Russian drink of water.”

JB, the traitor, chuffs in agreement. “This is all speculation,” Napoleon tells them both.

“Speculation or not, you two are arse over tits for each other,” Eggsy says as he raises his glass. “Good luck, mate!”

Napoleon groans, knowing he’s going to need it.

 

* * *

 

Illya has a nightmare the night Napoleon comes back from Eggsy and Merlin’s flat.

Nothing in particular or, perhaps, everything sets it off and crashes into Illya while startling Napoleon from sleep with all of his thrashing and whimpering. Actually, it’s one of Illya’s brawny arms thwacking him in the stomach that wakes him, leaving Napoleon momentarily winded.

His eyes snap open as he draws in a gasping, painful breath before the rest of the situation comes into sharp focus. Napoleon moves from the bed, flicking the lamp on and seeing the fresh tears staining Illya’s cheeks as intelligible Russian falls from his lips. He’s dealt with enough post-traumatic stress—from himself, comrades in his unit, and Gaby—to know to give Illya a wide berth, even though his instincts want to do otherwise. Napoleon watches the other man fist the sheets under his knuckles turn white and the fabric is endangered of ripping.

“Peril,” he softly calls as he leans against the mattress. He really hopes Gaby doesn’t hear them because that’s all he needs. Illya losing himself to bad dreams and Gaby becoming upset by them. “Peril, wake up.”

He hates watching the other man in agony like this, unable to fight the darkness that plagues him. Napoleon suspects the reappearance of Illya’s father has unlocked a place in the recesses of Illya’s mind, long buried since his mother was taken from him. Volkov ripped it open, not caring about its effects on his son.

“Mama!” Illya cries out, his voice cracking with emotion.

It only makes Napoleon glad Volkov is dead and that Illya dispatched him; he certainly couldn’t have done it himself. Not to mention the resentment that could have taken root had he done so.

“Peril,” Napoleon says again, a little louder this time. He watches as Illya’s legs become tangled in the sheets, causing him to thrash even harder. “It’s okay. It’s just a nightmare; they aren’t here.”

Napoleon hobbles to the other side of the bed and decides to hell with common decency. He can tell Gaby about it later if she asks. Inhaling deeply, he bellows, “Illya!”

Illya jolts awake as the last vestiges of his nightmare fade away, disappearing into the ether where they belong, and he sits up. With his chest rapidly rising and falling as his breathing calms, Illya’s blue eyes bounce around the room in search of unseen enemies. Napoleon thinks the other man will need to change since his thin t-shirt is damp with sweat and sticks uncomfortably to his skin.

“You were having a nightmare,” Napoleon explains, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and wincing. His crutches are on the other side of the bed, too far for him to limp over to get them now. “Are you alright?”

A pair of tears slides down either side of Illya’s face as his breathing evens out after several painful minutes. He draws his lip in with his teeth and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he whispers, sniffling.

“Stay here,” Napoleon softly commands, limping towards the dresser where he pulls out a fresh shirt. He can feel Illya’s eyes on him, tracking his movements in case something should happen to him. Napoleon comes back, offering Illya his own clothing and watches as the other man strips his torso.

Normally he would stand and admire the display, as it _is_ admirable, but right now Napoleon has other things on his mind. Once he has the bunched-up shirt in hand, he tosses it in the direction of the closet and hobbles his way into the bathroom. Standing next to a stack of neatly folded hand towels is a glass. Napoleon grabs it and turns on the faucet, filling the cup with cool water before returning to Illya.

He finds him sitting in bed, absently twisting the sheets in his hands, only stopping when he hears Napoleon’s approach. Illya watches him intently, his body still until Napoleon goes to sit on the edge of the mattress. He hands him the glass, beckoning Illya to take it. He does with trembling limbs and drinks from it under Napoleon’s stare.

“Better?” Napoleon asks once Illya has drained the glass, gently prying it from his hand.

Illya’s eyes follow Napoleon’s movements before their stares meet. “ _Da_ ,” he answers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Peril,” he says as he sets the glass on one of the bedside tables. Napoleon knows things between them are unresolved despite them sharing a bed every night. “Are you ready to try to sleep again?”

He watches as Illya lowers his head and shakes it. “Not yet,” he whispers.

“That’s fine, then,” Napoleon tells him. “We can go into the main room and watch a movie until…”

“Why are you here, Cowboy?” Illya asks, sounding defeated. His eyes flicker up for a moment before he looks away. “Why are you here with me?”

Napoleon is taken aback by the question. _Because I love you, you idiot,_ he wants to scream. _Because I love you so much that it scares me._

“I thought you knew why,” he answers carefully.

Illya blinks at him. His expression is perfectly schooled to reflect nothing, except to those like Napoleon that know his tells. They are small, barely noticeable gestures; the bits of humanity that the FSB were unable to beat out of him. Usually, Napoleon finds them endlessly fascinating, but as he stares at Illya, he only feels sympathy.

“I carried out orders,” Illya tells him, “things that should have never been done.”

“So have I,” Napoleon says, settling his hand on Illya’s knee. “Under orders, of course. Unless if you count the time I stole that…”

Illya shoots him a sharp look and effectively shuts him up. He doesn’t shift away from Napoleon’s touch, though he glances down at his hand. “I have done bad things, Cowboy. I am not a good man.”

“Who’s to say what makes a good man?” Napoleon counters, inching closer to Illya. He reaches for his chin and runs his thumb over Illya’s stubble.

“My father…” the other man begins to say.

He doesn’t want to hear Illya compare himself to Volkov, not now or ever. The man before him could never be as cruel as his father, not even if he tried. Shaking his head, Napoleon lifts Illya’s chin. “Was a terrible man and you aren’t a thing like him,” Napoleon replies.

“I could be, Cowboy,” Illya intones as a tear falls down his cheek. “I am his son.”

“No,” Napoleon insists. “No, _never_.” He cups Illya’s face with both hands, brushing away newly fallen tears with his thumbs. All he wants to do is lean in and gently kiss him, to make all his sadness go away. “You are your mother’s son, Peril.”

A broken cry falls from Illya’s lips as they find Napoleon’s, guiding them into a soft, lazy kiss. Napoleon tastes tears on his tongue, growing richer and sweeter as Illya works his way into Napoleon’s mouth. Calloused fingertips caress his bare shoulders, pulling Napoleon closer until they fall back on the bed.

God, Napoleon missed this! The feel of Illya’s lips against his, their bodies moving together as they scoot up the bed, how they can’t seem to get enough of each other. He’s missed it so much that it leaves an ache in his chest. Illya’s fingers dig between his shoulder blades, warm and wonderful against his skin, and Napoleon wants more. He pulls back, finding Illya with puffy, red lips and a flush on his cheeks. He looks unfairly beautiful like this, disheveled and perfect as he lies under Napoleon. And yet, Napoleon wants to make sure Illya is ready for this.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, tracing his fingers over the curve of Illya’s jaw.

Illya stares at him, his throat bobbing as he swallows and nods. “ _Da_ , yes,” he whispers back, moving closer to brush their mouths against each other. “I want to.”

Napoleon can’t argue with that; he closes the distance between them to kiss him. He’s missed how Illya’s skin feels under his palms or the weight of Illya’s legs as he wraps them around his hips. Napoleon doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to this, and he doesn’t care.

He moves his mouth, planting wet and open kisses on Illya’s jaw while his hands pull at the waistband of his pajama pants. He works them down Illya’s hips, groaning as he brushes over the wet tip of the other man’s cock. Napoleon continues his way down Illya’s body, laving his tongue over warm, flushed skin. He wants to tell him how much he’s missed this as Illya buries his long fingers into Napoleon’s hair.

“Napoleon,” Illya whispers as he removes the other man’s length from his clothes and takes him into his mouth.

He’s heavy on Napoleon’s tongue, already spilling precum as he swallows him down. He employs every trick he’s learned in regards to Illya’s pleasure—how he likes a hint of teeth with a blowjob or a teasing finger pressed into the skin of his perineum, dragging it over his prostate until Illya pulls him up for another kiss. Napoleon makes a soft, obliging sound as he begins shucking off his boxers with Illya’s help.

Together they strip each other, tossing clothing off the bed until both of them are naked and rut against the sheets. Napoleon starts slowly, moving his hips between Illya’s legs and savoring how their sacks brush upon each other. He glances up, watching as Illya lets his head fall back against the pillows and bears his throat to the room. Grinning, he rolls them forward again and earns a moan in return.

He could listen to that sound for the rest of his life.

Or feel Illya’s feet arching against his as they work their way towards other things.

It’s then Napoleon remembers that the lube is in his toiletries bag in his room, away from their naked bodies and muffled sounds of their pleasure. _Fuck,_ Napoleon curses to himself as Illya groans into his jaw.

As much as Napoleon wants to be buried inside of him, he knows full well that spit and desire, no matter the abundance, does not make for easy fucking. And he certainly can’t be fucked to leave a wholly disheveled Illya to go get it.

So he continues rolling his hips against Illya’s, finding the angles that make his lover moan and have the headboard banging against the wall. Napoleon is grateful that Gaby and Illya’s room don’t happen to share a wall because neither of them would hear the end of it. She’s clear on the other side of the suite, away from Illya’s breathless cries and their impossibly hard cocks brushing against each other.

“Close,” Illya manages to choke out, mouth open and hot against Napoleon’s cheek. His eyes are bright with lust, so blue that Napoleon could drown in them and they’re all for him.

Another thrust and Illya’s eyes flutter shut as his fingers tangle themselves in Napoleon’s hair. He can hear faint Russian being murmured against his skin, imprinting the other man’s need in a message no one but them can see.

Napoleon takes them both in hand, stroking Illya the way he likes it best. “Ready?” he whispers, chuckling at Illya’s instant and enthusiastic nod. “Are you going to cum for me?”

He doesn’t allow Illya to answer. He takes his fingers and tightens them around both their cocks, jerking and stroking as Illya gasps under him. Napoleon feels the rising tide of Illya’s pleasure in the pit of his stomach, pulling him closer towards his own orgasm.

God, he’s never felt like this, being so undone by a single person and realizes that he never wants to let the other man go.

Illya arches into him, body trembling as he spurts between their stomachs. Napoleon feels the bite of his fingers twisting his hair and pulling; it should hurt, but it doesn’t. He wouldn’t care if it did.

He follows Illya over the edge, gasping loudly into his shoulder. Illya’s musk, sharp and spicy and completely his, surrounds Napoleon. Between his mind going blank as he shudders through the rest of his orgasm and Illya’s body pressed against Napoleon’s, he can’t think of anything else. Even with overly sensitive, still-thrumming nerves that nearly hurt as he collapses on top of him, Napoleon can only think of Illya.

Illya’s body, Illya’s breath against his cheek, Illya’s lips at his hairline.

Illya, Illya, Illya.

They wipe each other off with a discarded shirt once they can be bothered to move. One of them - Napoleon doesn’t remember who— turns off the bedside lamp, washing them into darkness as they lie on the mattress and each other.

It doesn’t matter that their skin is overly warm and sweaty or that they will wake up with dried flakes of semen on their bodies. Or that Illya hasn’t said that he loves Napoleon; deep down, he already knows.

As they curl into each other and drift off together, Napoleon has never been more certain of anything in his entire life.

 

* * *

 

They wake entirely too late to escape Alexander Waverly as he opens the door to Illya’s room and finds them in bed _very naked_.

It would have been one of those lovely mornings after Napoleon has only heard about; the lazy kisses and cuddling that leads to even lazier, slow sex if Illya allows him to get out of bed long enough to get the lube. They could have spent time relearning each other’s bodies under another grey London morning, but no.

“Mr. Kuryakin, have you seen… _I beg your pardon_!” Waverly exclaims, sounding more embarrassed than Napoleon and Illya as they sleepily sit up in bed, blinking at their boss standing at the threshold. His pale face is rather red and he’s doing that English thing where he’s trying to pretend that he’s not flustered as he politely excuses himself. “I’ll be outside,” he tells them before shutting the door.

Napoleon yawns and leans into the headboard, scratching at his chest. He looks to Illya, who is equally unaffected by their rude awakening. “Well, I guess we don’t have to declare our relationship to Waverly,” he tells the other man.

“Guess not,” Illya agrees with a yawn. He runs a hand through his mess of blond cowlicks. “Did we have a meeting this morning?”

He shrugs. “Possibly,” Napoleon says, lifting his arm for Illya, who goes to make himself comfortable in the curve of his body. A thrill runs through his spine at the sight of it because before last night, they were never like this, not really. “Maybe. My phone is in my room, otherwise, I’d check.”

“Hm,” the Russian murmurs. He turns into Napoleon’s wrist, pressing his lips into the inside of it. “Too far for you to walk.”

Napoleon chuckles as he kisses Illya’s temple. “I’d agree; besides, you look too comfortable for me to leave.”

“ _Da_ ,” Illya replies, looking downright devious as he brings their mouths closer together. “Stay here.”

He’s so close to kissing Illya, he can taste. So close to pulling him down onto the mattress and never leaving. Alexander Waverly and his meetings be damned!

Except for Gaby—Gaby _cockblock_  Teller who doesn’t give a damn about their sex life—barges into the room wearing one of her colorful frocks with an equally colorful scowl and proceeds to absolutely kill an otherwise romantic moment.

“Are you two still in bed? Are you naked? Do I need to separate you?” She marches over to Illya’s closet and begins taking out clothes for him to wear. “ _Bist du verrückt!_ You two have debriefing with Waverly and you’re making out! I need a raise!”

Gaby turns around holding a belt, her scowl deepening when she realizes that both Napoleon and Illya are still in bed. “And a hose to separate you two! Get up!” she barks. “ _Now!_ ”

With a quick, chaste kiss over Gaby muttering “ _Du bist beide idioten!_ ”, Napoleon bids Illya farewell for a short time. As much as he wishes he could spend the day in bed, Waverly is here for their debriefing and they must tend to that fully clothed.

The discussion must happen, much to Napoleon’s dismay. Normally he doesn’t mind these meetings, as Waverly usually has a nice spread set up for them so they can at least have a pleasant meal during an otherwise awkward conversation.

Except now it will mean that they’ll need to rehash what happened with Volkov, and Napoleon would rather not. Illya doesn’t need the reminder that his long-lost father was a psychopath or that he tried to kill them both. If Napoleon had a say in any of it, he would think the report would be enough.

He walks out of his room straightening his tie, all freshly shaven and wearing one of his more impressive suits because his boss just saw him in bed with a colleague. “Alexander,” Napoleon greets, hearing Gaby’s laughter from the terrace. He peeks through the sash curtains, finding her in Illya’s company as they sit at the brunch table.

“Napoleon,” Waverly says. He follows Napoleon’s gaze, offering one of his signature tight grins. “I suppose we should call Mr. Kuryakin back inside.”

“I’d actually prefer not to,” Napoleon replies as he turns back. “You’ve read my report, I take it.”

Waverly nods. “I did.” He gestures towards the couch. “I suspect you have more to tell me.”

He does. Napoleon reveals Volkov’s connection to Illya through an hour-long conversation; honestly, he’s surprised that he’s able to get it out in that amount of time without interruption. Waverly remains quiet throughout, though his expression says it all: the anger, the sadness, the surprise. It seems whatever intel U.N.C.L.E received, it never mentioned or even alluded to family.

“He was the one who betrayed his wife to the KGB,” Napoleon tells him, watching as Waverly’s gaze goes past him. He’s looking at Illya, no doubt, and probably wondering how a father could do such a thing to his own son. “I’m not entirely sure when his Volkov cover was created, but…”

“Illya wasn’t aware,” Waverly concludes. He slumps in his seat, rubbing absently at his chin as he thinks. “Just when I thought I’ve seen it all, the world’s scum throws me yet another curveball.” Waverly unbuttons his suit jacket and loosens his tie. “How has he been handling it?”

Napoleon glances over his shoulder to find Illya and Gaby laughing on the terrace. It’s the first time in days he’s seen a genuine smile on his face, one that reaches his eyes. “As well as he can,” he answers. He turns back to Waverly. “There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you, but needs to be kept between us until I have more concrete answers.”

“Are you speaking of the personal development between yourself and Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly inquires. “Because I’ve been aware of that for a while.”

“Wait, what?”

Waverly, the cheeky bastard, shrugs as he reaches for his teacup. “I’ve been in this game for a _very_ long time, Mr. Solo,” he says with an amused smirk. “Also, I happened by your room on the last night we were in Marseilles.”

“You’ve _known_ since _Marseilles_!” Napoleon squawks. He doesn’t know if he should be impressed at Waverly’s discretion or appalled at he hadn’t figured it out. Sinking into the cushions, he shakes his head. “Marseilles!”

“Indeed,” Waverly deadpans. “Not to mention that you look at him like a teenager besotted.”

Napoleon scowls at him. “I do not,” he mumbles.

“You do, but I find it rather endearing,” the other man tells him. “Was that the other matter you wished to discuss?”

He sighs as he straightens himself up. “No,” Napoleon answers. “It’s about something Volkov said about knights and two Englishmen who came to visit his wife. It may be nothing, but Merlin from Kingsman is looking into their archives about any missions to Russia in 1989.” He looks at Illya again and feels his heart stir.

“You believe that he may have living relatives,” Waverly says after a moment.

“Yeah,” Napoleon intones. “I do.” He meets his superior’s stare, expecting to find him less than happy to learn that this situation has become cross-agency.

Instead, Waverly is understanding and smiles softly. “You’re a good man, Mr. Solo,” he states. “Did you know that’s why I poached you from the CIA?”

“I thought it was my record.”

“It was some of it, but not all,” Waverly explains. “You care about people - your marks, your colleagues, your friends. You’d do anything to keep them from harm’s way.” He sets his now empty teacup down on the coffee table. “There are plenty of men and women who can thwart a bad man’s plans, but only very few of them are still human.” He pats Napoleon’s knee and stands up. “And even fewer are who have good hearts. Now come; I’m starving, and if I wait any longer, Gaby will have eaten all the pastries!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Bre, Leah, Momo, Tresa, and Heather as well as all of you who commented, kudoed, and bookmarked! Especially to Bre, who puts up with my shit and is an amazing friend.

They return to New York once the doctor clears Illya and Napoleon for travel.

It’s a relief to finally go home, and to be going home with Illya makes it even better. While Gaby sleeps in the row across the aisle, they relax in the silence of the first class cabin. Napoleon figures it’s as good of a time as any to bring up their living arrangements. Illya’s belongings are in the guest room and it’s fairly obvious that he isn’t just a guest; at least, not anymore.

“I don’t think you’ve been one for a long time,” Napoleon tells him, pressing their fingertips together and noting the slight size difference between them “Wouldn’t you agree, Peril?”

Illya blushes. “How long?”

He knows what Illya is asking: how long it’s been since Napoleon realized his feelings changed. “Since Lisbon,” he says. Napoleon drops his head against the seat and smiles. “I knew I loved you in Lisbon, but it’s probably been from the moment I saw you.”

It earns a lazy, dimpled grin. “Hm, probably,” Illya agrees. “I should have known in Puerto Rico, but it was Vienna.”

“I dislike Vienna,” Napoleon states, remembering what happened in that city. Finding Illya unconscious and half-drowned and feeling like his world was going to end. “We’re never going back,” he declares as he laces their fingers together. “Move your things into the master bedroom when we get home tonight.”

“Cowboy,” Illya sighs as he stares at their joint hands. His eyes meet Napoleon’s. “I am not good at this.”

Napoleon snorts; he can’t help it. “Have we met?” he teases. “The only steady relationship I’ve had is with Gaby, and she’s my best friend.” Illya laughs and Napoleon swears his heart is about to explode. “I’m not any good at this either, Peril, but I know I want you. All of the time, good and bad. Even in a firefight.”

“The bullets will singe your suits,” Illya points out. He leans closer to nuzzle Napoleon’s jaw with the cold tip of his nose.

“But if it means I have you, I don’t care,” Napoleon replies.

Illya answers him with a soft, chaste kiss and he can’t help but think it’s nice to have their relationship defined. He spends the rest of the flight with his head on Illya’s shoulder, happily alternating between watching a movie and dozing off. By the time they walk into the condo, Napoleon is relieved to be home. He and Illya trade smiles as Napoleon flicks on the lights. Tugging gently, he guides Illya inside and locks the door behind them. They order late night delivery while going through the process of unpacking, or in Illya’s case, bringing the rest of his belongings into the master bedroom.

Eating Chinese noodles at the kitchen island, starting a load of laundry, Illya wiping sauce from Napoleon’s chin with a fond grin; it’s a scene of domesticity of which the condo has never seen.

They have slow, unhurried sex later on; the kind in which between kisses and the removal of clothes Illya tells Napoleon, “Let me…”

It turns out letting him take the lead results in Napoleon’s back against the headboard while Illya does all of the work. He has his hands firmly planted upon his lover’s hips, watching as he rides Napoleon’s cock in whatever speed or rhythm he feels like.

Honestly, there’s nothing better than having a lapful of Illya or being buried deep inside of him. Perspiration has darkened Illya’s blond hair and left his skin with a thin sheen where Napoleon hasn’t licked it off. His moves his mouth down his lover’s chest, caressing it with his tongue until one of Illya’s nipples is within reach.

Napoleon sucks on the nub, bringing it to full hardness as Illya gasps into his ear. He growls in response, cupping either side of his lover’s ass and digging his nails into the firm muscle. They should be sleeping as it’s nearly four in the morning and they have brunch with Gaby around noon, but neither of them seems to care.

So what if they yawn through the entire meal and need to take a nap once they come home?

Illya’s making those aborted groans for when he’s close and Napoleon could care less about Gaby’s inevitable smirk because Illya is starting to tighten around him and fuck!

“Napoleon,” Illya murmurs, desperate and wanting and all of the things Napoleon has come to know him to be when they’re in bed together. It’s the first time he’s ever said his name during sex and it’s better than Napoleon imagined it to be.

He reaches for Illya, guiding his chin down for a sloppy, sweaty kiss and groans in appreciation from the moment their mouths come together. Napoleon grips Illya harder and uses the leverage of being under him to push deeper inside, striking Illya’s prostate.

Illya scrambles to grab his shoulders, breathing hitched and coming fast in hot puffs on Napoleon’s bare skin. “ _Ty mne nuzhen_ ,” he whispers, swollen lips brushing against Napoleon’s. “ _Ty mne nuzhen,_ Napoleon. _Pozhaluysta, ty mne nuzhen!_ ”

“I’m right here,” Napoleon assures him, shoving up into the gloriously tight heat of Illya’s body as he takes his lover in hand. He rubs his thumb up and over Illya’s slick, engorged cockhead. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not leaving.”

Spunk splatters between them, dripping down their bodies and onto Napoleon’s hand. He strokes Illya through his orgasm, clenching his teeth as he tries to keep his own at bay. It doesn’t work - it never has when Napoleon is with Illya - and he cums with a strangled cry, unloading himself deep into Illya’s quivering hole.

“We should ask Gaby for raincheck,” Illya mumbles into Napoleon’s hair. His lips brush against his neck, grunting tiredly as Napoleon eases himself out. “Spend day in bed.”

Napoleon grins into Illya’s cheek, wrapping his arms around him as he tips them over onto the mattress. They lie in a tangle, regaining their breathing and letting their bodies cool down. “I’ll text her later. How does that sound?”

“Very good,” his lover replies, patting Napoleon’s stomach. “After shower.”

He nods in agreement. “And after we remake the bed,” Napoleon adds, not fancying sleeping in dirty sheets. He turns his head, grinning at the sight of Illya lying next to him all fucked out and not going anywhere. They’re going to have a fantastic life together; Napoleon already knows it. “Hey,” he whispers.

Illya tilts his head, looking at him from underneath a fan of long, dark lashes. “Yes, Cowboy?”

“I like having you here,” Napoleon tells him, brushing strands of blond hair out of Illya’s eyes.

His palm catches against Illya’s mouth, where he kisses its center. “I like having you here, too.”

It’s then Napoleon decides that showers, bedding, and texting Gaby can wait.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon is no expert when it comes to relationships; he knows that.

As the days turn into weeks and he grows more accustomed to having Illya in the capacity of his boyfriend, he wonders if it’s always this easy or if he’s just lucky. Not that Napoleon is complaining; Illya is his partner in every sense of the word and whenever he thinks about it, his heart feels as if it will explode from sheer happiness. And he’s not even a sentimental person.

There are times Napoleon catches Illya unaware—cooking and using the incorrect pans, reading a book, playing chess— and thinks to himself how damn lucky he is.

Now that he’s off those idiotic crutches and no longer limping as badly, Napoleon takes Illya on a tour of New York City and the surrounding area. They visit the Museum of Natural History, observe the Thannhauser collection at the Guggenheim, catch a show on Broadway one night and attend the opera another.

They travel to Tarrytown when Illya learns that it’s home to the tale of Sleepy Hollow. As it turns out, Illya is a bit of a fan of folklore and Napoleon can’t help but adore how delighted his boyfriend is as they tour the Sunnyside estate.

Napoleon shows Illya the neighborhood he grew up in and spends awhile standing shoulder to shoulder outside of his childhood home. He feels Illya slotting their hands together, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze before kissing his cheek.

The two of them meet Gaby for various activities ranging from a lovely brunch in Brooklyn to going to the movies and making fun of the terrible spy film they end up watching. It’s nice to spend time with her outside of work, where they can be silly and laugh until their bellies ache.

And there’s the days and nights he spends in bed with Illya, where they explore each other’s bodies and push their limits. Napoleon shows Illya what treasures are in the nightstand drawer, using them on him until he’s wrung out with cum on his belly and between his thighs. There’s nothing more lovely than watching his lover come undone, shouting Napoleon’s name.

Illya turns the term wrecked and ruined into a masterpiece, one which he’s stretched out on the mattress, sweat soiling the sheets underneath him while it cools on his skin and dries in his hair. Where he’s glassy-eyed and grinning deliriously from kiss-swollen lips as Napoleon lies beside him.

God, he loves Illya.

All of it is enough to keep Napoleon’s mind off of the information he’s waiting for. He knows Merlin well enough that it’s pointless to pester him over it. He’ll contact Napoleon when he finds what they’re looking for.

Then again, Napoleon has never been one for patience. Suppose he’ll have to learn it.

 

* * *

 

Merlin’s text message comes through while he and Illya are out on a run.

The sound of notification mildly annoys Napoleon; it interrupts the mix he has playing on his phone, but there isn’t much he can do about that. Besides, he and his boyfriend seem to be having a competition on who can keep up their endurance before one of them dies from fatigue. He’s almost certain he’ll regret this later, but then again the way Illya’s shirt to sticking to his body makes Napoleon want to pounce him in broad daylight.

Which he does back at the condo.

They fuck in the shower where Napoleon fixes Illya against the tile stall and takes him from behind. He loves having his boyfriend like this, where Napoleon can watch his cock sliding in and out of Illya’s hole, stretched around his girth.

He forgets about the unread text message entirely when he feels Illya tightening around him. Napoleon digs his fingers into his lover’s hips and pounds into him, tipping Illya over the edge and sending him into orgasm. He cums a moment later, hissing through gritted teeth as he feels his body shatter and then rebuild. Dropping his head between Illya’s shoulders, Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs happily.

“Now, _this_ is my idea of a good workout,” he says with a chuckling.

“You’re terrible,” Illya responds, trying and failing to hide the amusement in his voice.

They wash off and end up falling into bed for a nap, nude and sated. Napoleon only knows the feeling of Illya’s body wrapped around him and his breath tickling the hairs on the nape of his neck.

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers several hours later, his voice thick with sleep. His fingers dance across Napoleon’s belly, rubbing it in slow circles. “Cowboy.”

Napoleon grunts, his eyes still closed. He’s hovering between a place of consciousness and the warm pull of more sleep; he wants to fall back into the latter more than anything. Also for Illya to keep touching him.

“Your phone,” Illya yawns. He moves, flopping over to his back. “Keeps making horrible sound.”

It’s serendipitous that his phone does just that a moment later. Napoleon blinks his eyes open and scowls before pulling himself out of bed. “Second,” he tells Illya as he stumbles towards their pile of sweaty discarded clothes. He rifles through it, wincing at the shrill sound his phone makes until he finds it hidden in the pocket of his workout shorts. Napoleon balls up their things and tosses it into the hamper, grumbling all the while.

All he can think while punching in his passcode is that this better be a good enough to haul his ass out of bed because he was comfortable, dammit. Napoleon continues grumbling to himself until he realizes it’s Merlin who’s been texting him with  _call me immediately_ in all caps.

Napoleon glances over at Illya, who appears to have fallen back asleep, and slips out of the room to do just that. He has no idea what time it is in merry ol’ England or if Merlin will even pick up.

“Took you bloody long enough!” he barks into the phone.

“I was preoccupied,” Napoleon replies, keeping his voice low. He goes into the office, shutting the door behind him. “You found something?”

He can practically hear Merlin’s scowl. “Of _course_ I found something,” he tells him. Merlin pauses. “I’ve got to warn you, lad, it’s big.”

Napoleon finds Illya in the living room several hours later, devouring a book on the L-shaped couch while a mug of tea cools on the coffee table. He stands in the hallway to appreciate the sight of Illya unaware of being watched, completely at ease. _Like he’s always been here,_ Napoleon thinks, fondly.

He taps his fingertips against the tablet in his hand, wondering if he should disrupt Illya’s tranquil day with the file Merlin sent over. Napoleon’s already been through it, having perused the information with Merlin in his ear as the bombshell unfolded. Of all the things he imagined about Illya’s relatives, this never came close.

“Peril,” he calls, watching as Illya’s eyes flicker up and crinkle with a smile. Napoleon goes to him with his heart pounding in his chest and sits. The weight of Illya’s arm warms his shoulders through the material of his button down. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Illya shakes his head as he puts the book away. “ _Nyet_ ,” he assures. “Was killing time, as you say.”

“With whom?” Napoleon asks, trying to steal a peek at the book cover. It’s another battered thing, worn from usage. “Alexandre Dumas. Should I be worried, Peril?” The press of lips against his cheek alleviates his concerns and Napoleon chuckles.

“You were on the phone for long time,” Illya points out, dropping his chin onto Napoleon’s shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

He nods. “I was speaking to Merlin. He’s the quartermaster for Kingsman UK Division.” A look of confusion crosses over Illya’s features. “Bald Scot who always sounds like he’s angry.”

“ _Da_ ,” Illya says, remembering. “Very grumpy man who is with boy that has a funny name.”

Napoleon laughs. “Don’t let Eggsy hear you say that,” he teases, nudging Illya in the side. Illya pulls him close and nuzzles his neck with the tip of his nose. 

He breathes in and answers an unasked question, “I had him to look into something for me.”

“Did he find what you were looking for?”

In all honesty, it’s a bit of a loaded question.

“Yes,” Napoleon replies, cautiously, setting the tablet in Illya’s lap. “There was something…” He pauses, wondering if he should refer to Volkov as Illya’s father. “Something was said in Rome that got me thinking. It has to do with you.”

Illya raises a questioning brow before looking at the screen and pulls up the file. “What is this?”

“Volkov mentioned knights that were helping your mother, two Englishmen,” Napoleon tells him. He laces their fingers together, watching as Illya stares at the screen. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Knights generally refer to Kingsman; it’s their _thing_ , I suppose. I asked Merlin to look into any missions that might have tried to be carried out in Russia. Around the time your mother was arrested.”

 _When they took you away,_ he thinks.

Napoleon gives pause to gauge the other man’s reaction and wonders how this will end. It could go either way, he realizes, because, essentially, painful childhood memories are being unearthed for the sake of reconnecting Illya with his family.

People who are the vaguest definition of the word, more meaningless than anything. And yet they exist, like faces in the crowd.

“He found something,” Napoleon says, choosing his words carefully. “A mission to Moscow in November 1989; two Kingsman agents were dispatched to evacuate an MI6 agent and her son.” He watches the other man run his teeth over his bottom lip as Illya begins to scroll through the document, eyes widening with each word.

Napoleon should know; he read the damn thing, after all.

“The mission failed,” Illya states.

“It did,” Napoleon concurs. He leans over, flicking his finger across the bottom of the screen until stopping upon a photocopied mission dossier. Napoleon points to a woman’s elegant handwriting. “Your grandmother was the one who went to Kingsman for their help.”

Illya brings the tablet closer and traces over the cursive of an unfamiliar name. A woman he only just heard about from his father; a name with no face and the woman who gave birth to his mother. The symbol of what could have been if the mission had been successful. Illya would have been raised in England, happy and healthy, and possibly become someone else.

A banker, a scientist, a doctor. A spy, perhaps, if his family allowed it.

Illya swallows. “Who was she?” he inquires.

“Her name is Marchioness Flora d'Eresby-Lennox of Willingdon,” Napoleon answers, smiling softly at his boyfriend’s face. He looks stunned, for lack of a better word. “She and your grandfather, Marquess Richard Lennox of Willingdon, are still alive. You have two aunts and an uncle with children of their own. _Your_ cousins. They’ve been searching for you all these years and are very anxious to meet you, Peril.”

Illya’s jaw falls open as tears brighten his eyes. He struggles to speak, unable to come up with the words to respond. Instead, he stands and walks on shaking legs to the window, leaving Napoleon alone on the sofa. “H-how?” he asks, wrapping his arms around himself. “How do you know?”

“It turns out both Merlin and I are well acquainted with the Marchioness.”

“Did you sleep with her?” Illya snaps.

Napoleon quickly shakes his head. The thought of it is quite unsettling. Not that she isn’t an attractive woman, but rather that she’s like a super spy mother. One who knows forty different ways to kill a man without spilling an ounce of blood.

“What? No! God no! I think she’d put a bullet between my eyes before I even tried!” He takes a breath. “Illya, she’s the head of Kingsman. She’s Arthur.”

 

* * *

 

They wait in one of the many parlors inside the Kingsman mansion because it’s more or less neutral ground compared to Arthur’s estate in Sussex.

Napoleon suspects Illya’s newly discovered family would probably charge in and overwhelm him, hence their designated meeting place. It’s just as well. Illya is a nervous bundle of energy as he sits in an armchair, tapping his fingers on his thighs while Napoleon closely inspects an authentic Vermeer.

“Don’t,” Illya says, piquing Napoleon’s interest.

He glances at his boyfriend. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t think about stealing it,” the other man replies, raising a brow as a knowing look brings a twinkle to his eyes.

Napoleon scoffs. “I _wasn’t_ going to steal it,” he states in a huff. Honestly, is his reputation preceding him? Does everyone believe that he is incapable of simply _admiring_ a work of art?

“You were thinking about it,” Illya points out. Napoleon can hear his smirk, the handsome bastard.

“ _But_ I wasn’t going to,” he argues because he knows better. Kingsman is a very paranoid organization in the wake of their previous Arthur being in league with a madman and Napoleon wouldn’t put it past them to booby trap everything inside of the building, paintings included.

He doesn’t blame them, honest. After all, he’s certain U.N.C.L.E would react in the exact same manner if something similar happened under their own roof.

They lapse back into silence; Illya is now picking invisible traces of lint off his suit and Napoleon has moved on to what may or may not be an _actual_ Jan Steen. Every so often, he pauses to check in with his boyfriend and to make sure he hasn’t given himself an anxiety attack.

Illya has been so wound up that he delegated Napoleon to pick out what he was going to wear, for Christ’s sake! Mr. Illya Kuryakin, who is the single stubbornest human being Napoleon has ever met and is very particular about his clothing, had _Napoleon_ dress him. Not that Illya has bad style; he’s very much a minimalist with a fondness for bow ties and that blasted watch he insists on wearing all of the time.

A fondness that Napoleon tries to ignore or it will lead to an all-out brawl.

He’s quite proud of the charcoal suit he shoved his boyfriend into; it brings out his eyes, not to mention emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.

It’s strange that he’s only _just_ seeing Illya’s uncanny resemblance to his grandmother. True, his grandfather and father have found a place in his Illya’s features, but it’s Arthur that dominates them. Napoleon has seen pictures of her when she was Illya’s age, in which they share the same blond hair and mischevious smile, not to mention excellent marksmanship. Honestly, Napoleon’s a bit jealous, though he would never say it aloud.

“What if they don’t like me?” Illya asks suddenly.

Napoleon’s head snaps around and he stares at his boyfriend, bewildered. “ _What?_ ”

“What if…” the other man begins to repeat.

He makes a face, holding up a hand for Illya to shut up. Just to _shut up_ because he’s being ridiculous and is worrying about _absolutely nothing_! “I heard you,” Napoleon says. He goes to him and pulls Illya up, watching as he averts his gaze.

“Why would you think such a thing?” he asks, more gently this time. Napoleon reaches for Illya’s hand and laces their fingers together.

Illya shrugs like a sullen teenager, complete with a pout. “Not sure,” he admits.

“It’s all right to be nervous, Peril,” Napoleon assures. He lets go of his boyfriend’s hand to thumb the curve of his chin. “I would say it’s probably normal.”

From behind a fan of dark lashes, a pair of blue eyes glance at him. “Cowboy,” he says quietly, “what _if_ they don’t like me?”

Flowery statements won’t alleviate Illya’s worries. Napoleon sighs as closes the inches between them and places his hands on Illya’s waist. “They’re going to absolutely _adore_ you, Peril,” he whispers, nudging Illya closer. “I’m usually right about these things, being a good judge of character and all.”

Illya snorts in disagreement. “What about the time in Nepal?”

“How was I to know that he was an assassin?” Napoleon retorts. “Also, _who_ told you about that?” He tilts his head, watching as a smirk curls the corners of Illya’s mouth and something inside of him seems to deflate. “Was it Gaby?” The other man shrugs, trying to appear all innocent, but Napoleon knows better. “It _was_ Gaby, wasn’t it? That little minx! I ought—”

Illya cuts off the beginning of his diatribe by bringing their mouths together, laughing as Napoleon rants against his lips. It’s one of the sloppiest kisses they’ve had between them, but no less enchanting. Napoleon stops talking and sinks into it with a soft sound.

He wraps his arms around Illya’s neck, trying desperately not to ruffle his hair. Napoleon loves moments like these where he and Illya can fall into their own world; everything else melts away, and it’s lovely. In previous romantic entanglements kissing usually led to sex, but with Illya it’s different. Illya expresses himself through them, whether he’s happy, sad, angry, or filled with desire. Napoleon always knows what mood his boyfriend is in when their mouths touch.

As much as he wants to get Illya naked, it’s terrible timing. They are moments away from meeting Illya’s grandparents, and while Arthur has a great sense of humor, Napoleon highly doubts she or her husband will appreciate him all over their long-lost grandson.

He cups Illya’s face and licks his way into his lover’s mouth, kissing him with everything Napoleon has. Besides, a little making out never killed anyone…as far as he knows, anyway.

“Cowboy, you are a terrible spy,” he chuckles against Napoleon’s lips a bit later. His cheeks are tinged pink and everything about his body language says that Illya is a bit more relaxed than before.

Napoleon snorts, rubbing the tips of their noses together. “I absolutely hate working with you, Peril.” He pulls on the front of Illya’s suit jacket, straightening it with his hands. “Feeling a bit better now?”

“Mostly,” Illya answers him. He looks down at himself before glancing at Napoleon. “Do I look presentable?”

He barely manages to suppress the groan pushing at his throat. Rolling his eyes so hard he swears he’s going to have a headache, Napoleon shakes his head. “Yes, Peril, you look presentable. Anything else?”

Illya doesn’t have time to answer; Eggsy raps on the door frame of the parlor and clears his throat. “The bullet train’s just pulled in,” he tells them. “Just wanted to let you know.”

Napoleon nods as Illya inhales sharply and clutches his wrist. “Could you give us a moment?” Napoleon asks. To his relief, Eggsy makes himself scarce and shuts the door behind him. When he turns to Illya, the sight of him breaks Napoleon’s heart; he’s gone pale again.

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers, voice shaking with emotion. He blinks, releasing tears down his face.

“Hey,” Napoleon says with a smile as he reaches for Illya and tenderly brushes them away. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

Illya nods, looking uncertain and terrified. “You’ll stay?”

“Of course, baby,” he replies, using a rarely said endearment. Napoleon touches their foreheads together as he runs his thumbs over his lover’s cheeks. “Anything you want.” He takes Illya’s hands, giving them an encouraging squeeze.

The sounds of footfalls over indiscernible voices come down the hallway; two men, one being Eggsy, and a woman. Only seconds remain until a family is reunited and Napoleon wonders how it will play out as he kisses Illya’s forehead.

“I’ll be right here,” he assures, nodding towards their clasped hands.

“ _Da_ , I know,” Illya answers, shakily.

Arthur appears in the doorway with her husband, looking every bit the grandparents eager to see their grandson. Part of Napoleon finds it strange to see such a formidable woman who inspires both fear and awe in those around her act so _human_.

Then again, even the best of spies are human, something which Napoleon forgets now and then.

She sees Illya first, bringing her hand to her mouth and covering the perfect O it makes. Arthur stares at him for a long while with her husband. Napoleon reckons they are seeing their deceased daughter in her son, perhaps parts of themselves as Illya fidgets under their gentle scrutiny. Her husband leans in, whispering in her ear and she nods. Together they step forward until they are in Illya and Napoleon’s sphere.

Emotions show more clearly on both their faces as they take in their grandson and honestly, it makes Napoleon a bit misty-eyed.

Her husband arches a brow when he glances at Illya’s wrist and reaches out to touch it. As he lifts Illya’s arm, the sleeve of his suit jacket moves, exposing the battered Minerva Chronograph resting under it. With his eyes starting to glisten with tears, Richard chokes though he makes a valiant effort to disguise it as a cough. Napoleon remembers that the watch used to belong to him; a gift from his mother that she passed down to her son right before her death. A token of a family Illya never knew that he smuggled throughout his life from the time he was a boy.

Illya observes his grandfather running his fingers over the watch, tracing over the face and worn leather. “Mama,” he begins to tell him, pausing when his grandfather glances at him. He swallows and says, “She told me to keep it safe.”

With tears leaking down his cheeks, Richard drops Illya’s arm and goes to kiss his forehead. “Ilyusha,” he whispers, embracing him. The nickname is far different from when Volkov said it’s filled with so much warmth and love within consonant and vowel. “My sweet boy.” The stunned expression on Illya’s face only lasts momentarily; he relaxes in his grandfather’s embrace and closes his eyes as he rests his head against his shoulder.

“Napoleon,” Arthur murmurs. He turns to her, finding a serene smile on her face as she goes to touch his cheek. She touches it, mouthing _thank you_  and goes to her grandson and husband. There, she hugs herself to Illya who pulls her close with his free arm.

It’s one of the loveliest sights Napoleon has ever seen—a family reunited after so many years apart. Illya is still holding his hand, fingers and palms pressed together.

 _You’ll stay?_ Illya had asked him only minutes ago.

 _Of course, baby,_ Napoleon told him.

So he does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture Helen Mirren as Arthur and Liam Neeson as her husband because I can and there's nothing anyone can do about it. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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